


Stupid Cupid

by calligraphypenn, little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Feels, Arguing, Awkward Flirting, Breakfast, Choking, Emotional Hurt, Explicit Sexual Content, Fist Fights, Florists, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past, Pets, Romantic Fluff, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 32,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7507219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/pseuds/calligraphypenn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Fenris owns a bookstore, Anders runs the florist shop on the other side of the street, and they are bought together, quite literally, by Cupid. Stupid Cupid started out as a Tumblr Round Robin with short chapters, but has developed a plot and...much longer chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Bookstore, Early One Morning

**Author's Note:**

> We're still developing this AU, which began basically as a dare on Tumblr. So tags will evolve as the work progresses, and who knows, the rating may increase. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.

He opens the door, first thing in the morning, flipping the sign over as he does.  A small presence brushes against his leg softly, and he looks down and says, “Oh.  You again.”

Green eyes meet his own, and the cat chirps happily.  It sidles past him, sniffing at the new acquisitions, the low racks of second hand pulp fictions.  Fenris had long ago given up trying to dissuade the cat - who’s name, if its collar can be believed, is Cupid - so now he merely ignores it.  He stomps back over to the desk, plopping himself down behind it, and takes up his copy of Herodotus again.

Half an hour later and he throws it back down on his desk, muttering, “Father of history, my ass.”  The cat jumps lightly off the corner of his desk and sits on the floor, licking its mouth.  He looks at it, scowling, then looks at his desk, on which sits his half finished bowl of cereal.  “Filthy creature,” he tells it, and Cupid looks smug, yawns, then gets up to stalk to the door.  That florist is at it again, Fenris sees.  The tall one, who’s taken the vacant shop on the opposite side of the street.  He peers through the bay window, rounding his desk, walking the aisle as if to get closer to the man, to see him better.  The man fusses with a bouquet of tulips, cocks his head thoughtfully, and then looks up and down the street, as if he is looking for something he’s lost.  Cupid leaps lightly into the window, staring out at the man, and then miaows loudly.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fenris tells it, “And anyway, I would have to be pretty damn lonely.”  


	2. Chapter 2

Anders summed up his stock. Baby’s breath. Silver dollar eucalyptus. Boxwood. Green hydrangeas. A bucket of carnations out in front to be sold inexpensively, next to a folding table covered in tiny succulents, like cloudy green gems in their terracotta pots. The cooler cases were filled with roses and cut daises, and the only thing missing was Cupid.

Where the hell was Cupid?

Cupid, since they had moved to the little shop with its apartment upstairs, usually liked to sleep next to the plate-glass window, or stalk between the fronds of Monstera like a tiger.  Ribbons and sheets of paper were enticing toys for a cat, and sometimes Anders would gently lay a sheet of tissue paper on top of his sprawled pet, who would then treat it as an exciting cave—until discovering it was much more fun to rip the paper to shreds.

He always had a brief fear—one that whenever Cupid vanished for any extended period of time—that Cupid has run off, gotten himself stuck in a basement or up a tree, or even wandered his way into someone else’s good graces. Cupid had been vanishing more and more lately, so much so that on the other side of his collar tag that Anders has taped a little note that says “Not lost, just visiting.” One night he even found himself hefting the cat, testing to see if he’s gotten any heavier from eating someone else’s cat food.  Cupid suffered the indignity with minimal grace, and was gone again the next morning.

Anders stepped outside with a jug of tulips—some waxy red ones, and some yellow-orange ones with softer, less rigid petals. His eyes drift to the bookstore across the street, where he has yet to venture—he sometimes sees the owner, who must be elderly since he sports a headful of white hair—pull out carts of dollar paperbacks onto the sidewalk.

He nearly drops his tulips when he sees a familiar figure in the bookstore window, paws up on the glass.

He can’t quite see clearly from across the street, but he can see his stupid cat open his mouth to give a silent _miaow._

“ _Cupid!”_


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris strides out of his shop, the bell chiming prettily overhead when he hears the cry.  The florist.  Tulips are everywhere, and water has sloshed out, over the pavement, Fenris can see the dark spackling up the legs of the mans trousers, but look, here he comes.  Barely scanning the street for traffic, the man marches out over the asphalt, staring hard into the front window of the bookstore.  “Cupid!  _ Cupid! _ ” he repeats, and Fenris stops walking, and folds his arms over his chest to lean against the exterior wall next to to the large bay window.  

“So the beast is yours then,” he says blithely, as the man walks over to press his face against Fenris’ shop front.  The man touches the glass with his hand, putting his fingers over the spot where the pawpads press on the other side, smiling at the animal, then he turns to Fenris.  

“Yeah.  Well.  I look after him.  But we’re a team, Cupid and I, aren’t we Cupie?  Aren’t we?”  This last is cooed through the window at the cat, who puts its paws down and sits on window sill, staring at the two of them outside.  Fenris hunches his shoulders, feeling the cool wind gust through his light jacket.  He sniffs and says, “He is rather a pest.”

“Oh no, he hasn’t been making a nuisance of himself, has he?  Oh Maker, I’m so sorry, if he’s damaged any of your…”

“No, no.  There is no damage.”  Fenris blinks up at the man, who stares worriedly at him.  He’s not exactly good looking; whatever lanky appeal there may have been through the window and with the distance of the road between them has been diminished.  He’s too thin, for one thing, and looks pale, careworn.  Not strictly bad things in and of themselves, Fenris supposes.  But there is something about him which provokes an oddly protective instinct in him; a strange vulnerability to the set of this man’s mouth, the look in his eyes which makes Fenris feel… makes him feel… he swallows, lifts his chin.  “It is fine,” he tells the man, “Do not trouble yourself with it.”

The man shakes his head.  “Look, if he is a bother, come and get me.  Or... here…” The man digs in the pockets of the apron he wears and pulls out a scrap of paper and a pen.  He jots on the paper and hands it to Fenris.  “I’m Anders.  Give me a call if he’s making a tit of himself?  Please?  I’d hate to think that…”

“You have a customer,” Fenris cuts him off, and when Anders turns around to look back across the road at his shop, he takes the piece of paper from Anders’ hand before blurting out, “But the owner of the bar down the road and some other people are getting together tonight.  At six.  At the bar.  To play cards.  If you want.  Uh...You should go.”  

He turns, cringing internally.   _ Idiot _ , he chastises himself, and strides the few paces back toward the entrance to his shop.  “Hey,” he hears from behind him, and turns, scowling.  “Hey,” Anders tells him, and smiles, “That’s lovely.  Thank you.  Um… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

Fenris stares at him for a moment longer, then says, “My name is Fenris.  Your tulips are wilting.” Then he turns once more, and walks inside, leaving the door open so that Cupid may escape if he wishes.  He throws the animal a glare for forms sake, sees it washing itself nonchalantly in the window, and huffs, shaking his head.  He goes to the desk, throws himself down behind it, and stares at the numbers printed neatly on the scrap of paper.   _ Anders, _ he thinks to himself, and smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders sprinted back across the street, to the man in a suit who wanted 12 red roses. There were tulips spattered all over the front tiles, and as he picked up each one he glanced across the street, at the blurry lump that is Cupid, still crouched in the front window. When he had left he’d been furiously washing himself.

Anders felt a silly grin stretch across his face. He hadn’t been kidding, when he’d said Fenris’–Fenris’!–offer was lovely. He had picked up stakes completely, and the new city felt echoing and empty, with only Cupid for company.

He wasn’t going to lie to himself. Fenris was lovely too.

A mop of shaggy white hair, luminous eyes that took in everything and gave away nothing, still young-looking in a lined, craggy face. Anders had been briefly terrified when those eyes had fixed on him, his idiot cat blinking limpidly at him in the background.  What kind of damage could a cat cause in a bookstore? Had Cupid embarrassed himself, and by extension Anders?  Was he going to have to avoid his new neighbor constantly in the future?

Anders sighed a little dreamily, thinking about Fenris’ sharp rejoinders while making corsages—he had been firm but not impolite, and Anders had gotten the feeling of being weighed and found acceptable somehow. Fenris had an edge to him, and Anders thought that was delightful.

And to be invited to drinks with friends after that! Anders tied and pinned another bit of ribbon. He had been so charmed by the suggestion that he’d even left Cupid with the man. He’d looked comfortable, and Fenris had been so quick to deny that the cat had been making any trouble.

The light dimmed, and the customers trickled in slower and slower. Anders flipped the CLOSED sign at five when Cupid streaked past him into the store. Anders locked up, purposefully not looking for Fenris across the street. Six, he had said—enough time for him to change out of his spattered clothes and feed the beast. “The beast,” Fenris had called him—but playfully. Or so Anders thought. Fenris was hard to read.

Anders’ apartment was above the store—boxes still cluttered the narrow passageways. He rooted through a trash bag for fresh clothes, and found a white t-shirt and brown jeans—too hot still for a coat.

He dressed and took a look in the mirror, disregarding Cupid winding around his ankles and crying plaintively.  He looked tired, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was tired—sleepless nights, keeping the books of his business, moving—had taken it out of him. Anders hesitated over his hairtie, but finally pulled it out, fluffing the hair around his face, in the hope that it would soften some of the prominent angles there. He tried a smile, and instantly felt a little foolish.

He fled to the kitchen, and fed the cat, giving him a few rough scritches beneath his collar. Once he was done bothering his cat, he made his way over to the door, and took a deep breath. Five-fifty.

He knew where the bar was, and after locking his door and making his way down the street, he could see the cars pulling into the lot. The sun was still high in the summer sky, and he could hear music playing faintly.  The bouncer looked him over, and then away, uninterestedly. No need to ask for Anders’ ID, anymore.

Anders rubbed a nervous hand over his stubble, and pushed open the door into the bar.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Tap, tap-tap.  Tap tap-tap-tap.   _ Fenris doesn’t even notice the noise his fingers make on the tabletop until he hears Varric politely clear his throat.  “Broody?  It’s your turn.”

 

He swallows, glancing down at his cards.  He’d been staring at the door again.   _ He’s not coming _ , he thinks, looking down at his truly dismal hand.  He couldn’t blame Anders, if he did decide not to show.  Fenris wrinkles his nose a little as he recalls his earlier behaviour.   _ You came off like a some desperate harpy in a poorly-written romance novel _ , he chides himself, frowning down at his cards.  He can make no sense of the game tonight, so sighs and puts them on the table, faces down, telling the group, “I fold.”  Isabela clucks in irritation, then raises her eyebrow at him, smirking.  “What is it, sweets?  You’ve been quiet all evening.  Cat got your tongue?”

 

He huffs a breath and runs a hand through his hair, before mumbling, “Something like that.” Almost against his will, he glances at the door again.  But this time, it opens, and his heart gives a leap; there is Anders, his form framed by the gold light of the setting sun.  He has set his hair free of the ponytail in which he’d worn it this morning; it frames his narrow face softly, the colour of burnished bronze.  And oh, it seems stupid, and Maker, undoubtedly it is, but yes, his heart does beat a little faster.  He smiles and misses his mouth with the wineglass, slopping red wine over himself.  “Fasta vass,” he moans, as everyone else bellows laughter at his error.

 

Fenris clenches his jaw, snatching the napkins which Merrill pulls from the dispenser, batting her hands away.  “I can do it,” he tells her crossly, then winces as he hears Anders say quietly, “Uh… hello.  I’m…”

“The florist!” Varric says, rising to shake Anders’ hand.  “Yeah, Broody - Fenris, I mean - he said you were coming.  Anders, right?”

“Yes...”

“Oh, shit, sorry… ha,” Fenris sees Varric flap his hand in his direction, and rolls his eyes up at Anders as Varric says, rather too gleefully for Fenris’ taste, “Broody had a little accident.  Don’t know what’s gotten into him tonight.  I’m Varric, the Hanged Man is my establishment…”  As Varric goes around the table, introducing the members of their little group, Fenris continues to dab ineffectually at the spreading wetness on his black shirt.  He looks up again, sees Anders smiling politely and then says, quietly, “Hello.”

 

He swallows as Anders looks at him, the golden colour of his eyes darker in the low light of the bar - something like honey.  As soon as he has made the comparison, he cannot think of anything else, berates himself internally for the sophomoric thought of  _ I wonder if all parts of him are as sweet _ ?  He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable on the plush booth seat, and says curtly, “Come to the bar with me.”

 

Anders chuckles and tucks a hank of hair behind his ear.  He nods as Fenris rises, ignoring Isabela, who loudly requests he spill a little more wine on himself, she  _ does _ like the idea of a wet t-shirt thing, Varric, can we do that sometime?  More loud laughter, and then they are walking away, toward the bar, and Fenris says quietly, “Idiots, the lot of them.”

 

Anders laughs again and folds his arms on the top of the bar as they wait.  “I don’t know.  They seem nice.  Well meaning, I suppose.  Are you worried about a stain?”

Fenris shakes his head.  “Part of the reason I like black.  It’s serviceable, especially when one has such idiotic friends as I do.”  He frowns suddenly and says quickly, “Not that I think you’re an idiot.  I don’t.  I…”  He shakes his head, feels his ears droop a little and is silent before he can prove once more that  _ he _ in fact, is the idiotic one.  But when he chances a look at Anders, he sees the man looking at him, smiling gently, “So… we’re friends?”

 

“Of course,”  Fenris says, having to rub a hand against the back of his neck as some part of his brain asks  _ only friends _ ?  He nods to the dark haired bartender, who moves to fetch another bottle of wine.  He smiles back at Anders, and raises an eyebrow, “I have fed your cat, after all.  That would make us friends for life, I’d assume.”


	6. Chapter 6

Anders could hardly hide his joy at Fenris’ words.

His friends—a charming motley seeming crew—were lovely and rowdy, while Fenris himself was much more approachable than in the afternoon. He had come in to him dabbing wine off his shirt as his friends laughed and the faintly panicked look on his face had been adorable. Anders had felt even more at ease then, and when Fenris had said that they were friends for life because of their shared feeding of Cupid–

Well. Anders was going to have to buy Cupid the _nice_ wet food.

“I supposed it does,” he said, propping his head up on the bar with one hand, feeling his hair slide slickly through his fingers. He didn’t miss Fenris’ quick look. Well well _well._ “What have you been feeding him, anyway?”

“Hmm,” Fenris said, suddenly looking very absorbed in the bottle of wine the bartender brought.

“Not like—chocolate or anything?” Anders said, faintly alarmed. The bartender set a beer in front of him and whipped a napkin under it before leaving.

“No,” Fenris said. “But…perhaps pizza. And cereal.” He looked a little anxious, if Anders was reading him right—mouth pressed in a straight line, looking straight ahead, but darting looks at him from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh Maker,” Anders said. “He loves carbs. I have to fight him off my bread every chance I get.”

“They aren’t bad for him?” Fenris asked.

“I don’t think it’s the best, but no harm, no foul,” he assured Fenris. “Our friendship is secure.”

“Oh good,” Fenris said lightly, and motioned with the bottle of wine back to the table.

The cards had been swept away—thank goodness, Anders had eyed them coming in, he didn’t know a card game to save his life—and soon easy chatter filled the air, sped along by the bottle of wine that Fenris opened with a deft pop.

 Anders could hardly believe his luck—he’d expected to have to agonize over meeting new people. Instead the invitations flew thick and fast—Merrill asking him if he was interested in an alternative agriculture show (he hoped that didn’t mean weed) and Varric’s invite to a beer tasting later that week, not taking no for an answer. 

Best of all was Fenris’ deadpan comments and wry laughter, especially at the antics of Hawke and Isabela. At some point, someone ordered food—by the amount, he suspected Hawke—and Varric smoothly ordered round after round.

The hours sped past, and a full and tipsy Anders looked up from an elaborate story Isabela was telling about two local politicians and a goat to realize that the other customers were trickling out, and that it was midnight. He had a flower shipment coming in at 6am.

“Shit, I guess you really are a morning glory, Blondie,” Varric said.

“That sounds horrifying and I’m sorry,” Isabela said.

“So…I should head back,” Anders said, rising to his feet to a chorus of goodbyes, and he was flattered and gratified to see Fenris get up too.

“You could have stayed,” he said, once they were outside.

Fenris shrugged, and they both started down the street. “I’m at the bookstore most days, and working there is much improved if I am not sleep deprived and hungover,” he explained.

Anders could only laugh—but in a way, that was all he could do anyway, as walking down the street with Fenris was fairly breathtaking. The night was warm, and breezy in a way that lifted Fenris’ long white hair and snuck under his shirt, causing him to tug it back down. Anders could hear carousing from all over the city, and the feeling of weekend excitement sparked in him a recklessness that he hadn’t felt in years.

“Well, I’m here,” Anders said, as they neared the flowershop.

Fenris looked baffled, and Anders pointed to the fire escape. “I live above the shop,” he said, and Fenris’ thick brows raised high in disbelief.

“Lucky,” he said.And that could have been that. Fenris turned his head to watch some drunken college students roar by in the street, and Anders was struck again by him.

Anders thought about the boxes still in his hallway. He thought about Cupid and how small the apartment was. But he also thought about the warm wind coming in through his windows, and how his bed was made. And he thought about Fenris and his lovely eyes, lovely hair, and lovely everything. And he’d not been mistaking Fenris’ look of interest earlier. No, that was the one thing he _was_ sure of.

Anders leaned against the fire escape, shook out his keys, and made up his mind.

“Fenris,” he asked, before his nerves could get the better of him. “Would you like to stay for breakfast?”


	7. Chapter 7

“Breakfast isn’t for hours ye… Oh.”  A thrill races through Fenris when he realises what those words mean.  Anders is inviting him to stay the night.  Anders.  And him.  His throat constricts, and he can hardly breathe for wanting to say yes.   _ Just say it, say it! _ part of his mind gibbers at him, but there is something in him that baulks at the idea too.   _ You know nothing about him, _ this voice hisses, and the other answers,  _ You know he loves his cat, he takes good care of it - you know where he lives, you know he’s sweet, and kind and… _

 

_ Anyone can give that impression.  He could be anything, anyone, under that front.  Don’t be fooled again _ , the second voice tells him, and the sudden flame of desire flickers and burns low.  Anders is still looking at him expectantly in the moonlight, the keys in his hand, and Fenris knows that if he waits too much longer, he will lose the opportunity, perhaps forever.  He swallows against his dry throat, and says, “Anders…”

 

Anders’ expression changes; he looks down at his feet suddenly, a small, sad smile on his lips, then he looks back up and laughs shakily.  It’s honest, that laughter, but fraught at the same time, and Fenris cannot help his puzzled expression.  Anders shakes his head, tucks his keys into his fist and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, “I’m sorry, what was I thinking?  Maker, we only met this morning.  Of course you don’t…”

“Anders,” Fenris repeats, and his breath almost stops in his lungs as his mind catches up with what his body means to do, but he’s reaching up, stepping forward; one hand going to Anders’ waist, the other into his hair, pulling his head down.  “Anders,” he whispers fiercely against the other man’s mouth, “I would love to stay.  For breakfast or anything else.”

 

Anders blinks, and swallows, his mouth opening a little.  “Oh,” he says, and Fenris can smell the beer on his breath, and the faint smell of aftershave, and the ethereal waft of flowers from him.  His breathing is ragged as they stand there in the moonlight, and Anders seems suddenly at a loss.  His expression is so sweet that Fenris chuckles and leans forward a little, opening his own mouth, lowering his eyes.  He wants to kiss Anders, his mouth, his neck, anywhere Anders will let him, but he wants, he needs Anders to be sure.  He will not take what is not given freely - he will not be anyone’s regret.  “Anders,” he mutters again, and then Anders lunges forward, kissing him, their mouths moving almost on reflex.  Anders hands, his arms curl around Fenris’ torso, holding him tightly, and Fenris’ body feels as if it is on fire; bright white fire courses through him, tingling right from his toes up, zinging and sparking along every nerve as their mouths move, as his fingers dig into the soft cotton of Anders’ t-shirt and the yielding flesh beneath.

 

Eventually, they break apart, both breathing hard.   “Come on,” Anders gasps, and steps back, grasping Fenris’ hand firmly.  Fenris feels slightly dazed already; though nerves coil in his stomach, and he wonders what Anders wants.  What he really wants.  Should he ask?  It might spoil everything.   _ Plus, _ he thinks wryly,  _ It’s been a very long time for you; perhaps your performance will be somewhat lacking _ . They are half way up the fire-escape now, Anders pulling hard on Fenris’ hand.  Fenris looks up at the bloated summer moon, shining fat and faintly pink in the night sky and says, “Wait.”

 

Anders stops as if he’s been stunned, the ringing sound of the metal fire-escape fading quickly.  He pauses for a moment, still and silent, and Fenris bites his lip.  “Anders,” he says quietly, “Perhaps… perhaps we should not rush this.”  He swallows, and releases Anders hand.  “I… I am sorry.”

 

Anders sniffs, then turns slowly.  He tries a smile, but it is weak, stiff, and he soon gives it up.  “I feel like I just made a fool of myself.  It’s me.  I’m the one who should be sorry.”

Fenris shakes his head emphatically, “No.  Not at all.  I… would just rather we knew each other a little better.  I…”  _ want you, I want you to want me as much as I want you.  I want to wake up in sunlight with you and kiss you under blankets and watch bad movies with you and fight with you and make it up again, do it all again the next day.  I want to watch you sleep, to be the first person you see when you wake up, to smile at you and kiss you and laugh at your bad jokes, cry with you when things go wrong.  I want you, but it’s too soon to know this, so how do I know it so well?   _

  
He grinds his teeth together, and is silent for a time, his eyes downcast.  Eventually, he repeats, “I am sorry.  Would… would it be alright…” He huffs a breath, looks at Anders and clenches his jaw, then says quickly, “Would it be alright if we still had breakfast together?  I live above my shop also.”  He points to his little apartment, tries not to think of how cold it will be, how lonely.  He takes a deep breath in and tries to smooth his frown.  “If you would like to, why don’t you come over in the morning?  Whenever you’re ready.”


	8. Chapter 8

Anders watched Fenris leave, leaning hard on the fire escape railing as if it was the only thing holding him upright.

He could see Fenris, as he crossed the street, scrub both hands through his hair and over his face. Almost as if he was trying to snap out of a haze, and Anders wished he could too–but he was too tipsy still. But instead of the invincible buzz he felt just minutes ago, he was sick and shaky.

He was an idiot. He had just met Fenris, and he was already throwing himself at him. No, he was worse than an idiot, he had been creepy, and the very idea gave him a full-body cringe.

 _That isn’t true_ , an internal voice pointed out at him. Fenris had dragged him close, had put his hands in his hair, on his waist, had kissed him. Had asked him over to breakfast the next morning. The thought was enough to get him moving, because Anders, remembering his heinously clumsy pick-up line, nearly ran up the rest of the steps to his door before Fenris could turn and look back and see him still standing there.

As he unlocked his door, he thought about texting Fenris, telling him he couldn’t possibly come to breakfast the next morning—then banged his head on the doorframe, remembering that Fenris had his number, and not the other way around.

A sound had him, in his overwrought state, jumping—and he shut the door quickly, before Cupid could get out.

“No,” he said. “No no, Cupid.”

Cupid made an irritated sounding meow, and skulked into Anders’ bedroom. Anders followed him in.

He toppled into his bed face-first, not willing to look around—sure, his bed had been made, but it was stuffy and there were boxes everywhere. He was relieved that Fenris had turned him down.

Or so he told himself.

Feeling self-consciously heartsick, the only concession he made towards responsibility was setting an alarm for five-thirty the next morning. Then he pulled a pillow over his head.

He oofed in pain as Cupid landed on him from wherever he’d been perched, and sighed as the cat scrabbled on his chest, paws finding every tender spot on his ribcage. Eventually Cupid made himself into a ball by his elbow, and Anders, foregoing brushing his teeth or washing his face, pulled his comforter over his clothes and miserably passed out.

His alarm beeped moments later, and he blinked unhappily in the dark before levering himself up. The blonde elf woman who brought him his flowers usually arrived ten minutes early in a flatbed truck. She was perpetually surly and short with him, and he at least needed coffee before seeing her. He had jokingly offered her a cup last time, and she had informed him that she didn’t drink caffeine. He jeopardized their entire business relationship when he had laughed incredulously, and he had to buy an entire block of Shasta daises before she would speak more than two words to him again.

Once all his flowers were in and stored away (he’d do arrangements later), he stood and watched as the early morning sunlight pooled in through his glass windows. It was 7:15, and he sighed and rubbed his temples. Fenris hadn’t given him a time to come over. He was going to have to awkwardly go over to the bookstore or just…not go. The flower shop didn’t open until 9:30. He was tempted just to go back to bed.

A shadow stepped into the puddle of sunlight on the tiles, and Anders looked up.

Fenris stood there, his face implacable. The effect was slightly ruined by Cupid, who was an improbably being held by Fenris, rather uncomfortably. Anders had let him out in the morning, thinking nothing of it.

 _Traitor_ , Anders thought. It was getting slightly awkward just standing and staring through the glass, so he went to open the door.

Cupid immediately started struggling when Anders stepped out, and leapt out of Fenris’ arms, streaking inside.

Other than the hum of traffic from a distant, the street was still silent, and Anders could hear his throat click as he swallowed. Fenris looked refreshed, alert and neat, and Anders was all too aware of how bedraggled he looked and felt. At least he’d changed his clothes and brushed his teeth. Small mercies.

Fenris coughed lightly, and glanced away. When he looked back, he looked determined.

“Breakfast,” he stated, rather than asked. Then turned and beckoned to Anders, who bit back a thousand hysterical comments before following him.

* * *

 

Here is some beautiful art of Cupid and Anders by [usvaton](http://usvaton.tumblr.com/post/148209443240/a-quick-floristanders-doodle-kinda-based-on-this)! How incredibly lovely.


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris’ heart hammers in his chest as he turns and strides across the road again.  He can feel the weight of Anders’ presence at his back, wants to turn and kiss him right there, in the middle of the street, and damn whoever is watching.  He clenches his fists instead.

 _It was for the best,_ he reminds himself.   _At least, I hope it was._  He had awoken as the sun greyed the horizon from a barely remembered dream; one which had left his sheets damp with sweat, his legs tangled in the blankets.  As he had struggled to sit up, blinking, he had touched his lips, felt the trace-memory of Anders’ stubble under them, and smiled.

 

To distract himself, just to do _something_ , he had walked barefoot into the little kitchen - retrieved flour, yeast, eggs.  And in this way, the hours passed - the sun moves higher in the sky, the streetlights wink off.  He had heard a thud and muffled _miaow!_ as Cupid had tried to draw his attention from the fire escape, and smiled to himself.  If the beast is out, that must mean Anders is up.  He had gone to the window, opened it, and Cupid had bumped his arm affectionately on the way through.  Cupid had jumped lightly to the floor and walked to the place which he’d been accustomed to being fed, and Fenris had thrown himself into an armchair, picking up a nearby book to wait.

 

He had waited, and waited some more.  As each minute ticked by, he grew more nervous, the words on the page in front of him sliding by under his eyes without him really reading them.  Cupid leapt up on his lap, and unthinking, Fenris had stroked the animal, holding his book with one hand.  But finally, he had lost his patience, scooped Cupid up off his lap to hold against his shoulder.  He’d descended the stairs to the bookstore, flung open the door, strode across the street, vaguely hoping he wouldn’t be making too much of a fool of himself.  And here they are.

 

He pushes through the door of the bookstore, holds it open for Anders.  Maker, the man looks sick, and almost as tense as Fenris feels.  Fenris furrows his brow, gesturing Anders inside, then asks brusquely, “You look ill.  Did you sleep?”

Anders looks at him, clearly embarrassed, and Fenris’ stomach sinks.  He hadn’t meant it to sound like that.  “I meant,” he hurries on, “I meant to say only that… that you look like you had not slept.  Or that you might perhaps be coming down with something.  I…”

He stops, watching Anders, who does not look at him.   _Fool!_ he chastises himself. “I am sorry,” he says quickly, “I…”

“No,” Anders interrupts him, clutching his arms around himself.  “I’m sorry.  It’s just… oh, Maker, I acted like such an idiot last night.  I… I mean, I meant it, last night, I did, but I…” He pauses, hangs his head.  “I didn’t want to make it weird.”  He laughs then, small and bitter, “But why break the habit of a lifetime?”

 

Fenris cannot help it, he snorts.  Before he can stop himself, he blurts, “You did not act like an idiot. _Kaffas,_ I was the one who gave you every reason to think that I wanted to continue, and then flaked out.  I was the idiot.  You were nothing but charming, and strange, and wonderful with the miscreants I call friends, and, and, I like that, and I wanted more, I do want more, but I… I…” He shuts his mouth with a snap and looks at Anders, who is staring at him, open mouthed.  Finally, after a pause of almost a minute in which neither of them speaks, Fenris folds his arms over his chest and looks at the floor.  “I like you.  Very much.  More than is reasonable, after such a short acquaintance.  But I would far rather we be sure of everything before…”

 

But he cannot continue.  Instead, he leaves the quiet to stretch for a moment, then chances a glance at Anders’ face.  His expression is pensive, and Fenris frowns again, suddenly worried.  Has he given too much away?  Perhaps his confession is not welcome; perhaps Anders had thought that it would be a one night stand, nothing more.  Talk to him, some part of his mind urges, but he cannot.  He shifts from foot to foot, curling his toes inside his shoes, and sighs.  “Follow me,” he mutters finally, and walks past Anders to the stairs.

 

He pushes open the door to the little apartment above the bookstore, and Anders laughs.  It is a sound of disbelief, of joy, and Fenris exhales sharply, turning as he holds the door open.  Anders stands in the doorway, looking into the open plan space - and more specifically, at the little round table which sits beneath the window.  “You… did you make... You made bread?  For me? I… I was expecting cereal and toast,” he says, blinking.  Fenris shakes his head and tries not to smile.

“Of course I did.  Not just any bread.  It’s brioche - sweet bread.  Though I have cereal and toast if you would rather.”  He knows he sounds smug, but Anders grins at him, and walks forward.   As he passes, Fenris catches a waft of some lovely scent; roses perhaps, something floral.  Not sweet, but real and rich.  His smile changes to one of fondness, and he gestures at the little table.  The chipped stoneware is all he has by way of plates, and the glazing on the coffee cups are crazed, but all that doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t matter, because Anders is sitting down, at his table, he is here.  Fenris feels his heart beat a little faster; he smiles at Anders, who smiles back.

 

It turns out that Anders has never had brioche before.  He has two of the small loaves, following Fenris’ lead by slathering them in both butter and raspberry conserve.  Fenris grins at him when he sees Anders looking at the last one in the basket between them.  “Would you like it?” he offers quietly, and Anders looks away, shakes his head, then quickly looks back.

 

“Could I?  They’re delicious.”  Anders smiles coyly, his long fingers already reaching for the burnished gold of the glazed bread.  He scrunches his mouth to the side, glances at Fenris again, then says softly, “Like you.”

Fenris laughs.  “I am sure I am more of an acquired taste.  Umami, I think they call it.”  He picks a stray piece of crumb from his plate, and smiles a little, darting his eyes quickly to Anders’ face, holding his gaze as he says, “Now, you however, I imagine would be sweet, but not cloying.  Delicate.  Rather lovely.  Like honey.”

 

Anders swallows hard on the bread, and his eyes go wide, his mouth opening.  His hand curls into a fist, and he beats himself on his chest, face reddening.  For a moment, Fenris stares at him, still smiling slightly, and then his face falls as he realises what is happening.  

Anders is choking.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Anders was choking, and he couldn’t believe it.

From the look of horror on his face, Fenris couldn’t either.

When Fenris had insinuated he was _sweet_ he had done a double-take in shock. Other than the occasional platitude thrown his way over the last few years, mostly begrudgingly, the fact that someone had called him what amounted to _delicious-looking_ was laughable—in a deeply upsetting, arousing, way. So he had started to laugh, but unfortunately for both of them he had tried through a mouthful of bread.

The kicker was, Anders’ mind dispassionately continued as he heaved, Fenris had said he imagined Anders tasted sweet. But they had already kissed, so what could Fenris be talking about?

_You know exactly what he meant, idiot!_ another voice screeched, and it was enough to have Anders clattering out of his chair.

Fenris also rose to his feet, and was holding his hands out. His eyes were riveted on Anders’ face. Anders couldn’t speak, and it looked like Fenris’ voice had been stolen from him as well. Though his pulse was starting to scream in his ears, he spun his chair around and set his fist on the top of the curved wooden back. Then, he set his upper abdomen against his fist and thrust in and up.

The Heimlich wasn’t working, and Anders was having muddled panicky thoughts of ambulances and how long the brain could go without oxygen when an incredible _thud_ rattled his ribcage. It felt like he had been hit between the shoulderblades  with a brick. The impact came again, and the shock almost rather than anything else had him coughing up the offending piece of bread.

The first breath felt like ambrosia, and sounded like a rasping honk. Anders, gasping, slid down the chair to the floor, and it took most of his strength to cover his face with one hand. Maker, how embarrassing. He halfheartedly thought about getting more bread and finishing the job.

He heard Fenris crouch beside him, and peeking out from the spaces of his fingers, he saw that he was being offered a napkin—and became aware that his eyes and nose were streaming.

Anders took the proffered napkin, and wiped his eyes. Then blew his nose. He could see Fenris moving to sit crosslegged on the floor.

“I….forgive me, but if light innuendo is enough to nearly make you die in my kitchen, then I’m almost afraid to touch you,” Fenris said, his eyes worried but his mouth curling up into the slightest smile.

Anders gave a wheezing gasp.

“How dare you…” he heaved, his breath still not back to him yet, and nearly choked again when he saw Fenris’ smile disappear, and his ears droop, the relieved shine leaving his eyes. The picture of a devastated elf.

“How dare you make me laugh when it hurts like this?” he finally wheezed out. Maker, his voice sounded terrible.

“At least you’re laughing about it,” Fenris rejoined, his shoulders falling from where they’d risen defensively.

“If I’ve accomplished anything,” Anders rasped, “You won’t ever forget meeting me. My cat stealing your food, propositioning you, and nearly choking to death in your house—what next, I wonder? Falling down your stairs might be a good follow up step. Maybe I’ll get kidnapped by a blood mage next.”

“You can rest here until you feel better,” Fenris said, firmly lifting him to his feet. Anders swayed, and bit his lip. No wonder Fenris’ attempts to help had hurt—the elf was ferociously strong, which was completely belied by how elegantly he presented himself. Anders wondered, as he was led to a couch and urged to sit, if he swooned Fenris would catch him. Everything that had happened so far pointed towards a resounding “Yes.”

“And if you get kidnapped by a blood mage, I’d rescue you,” Fenris said, as if it was _that easy._

And so Anders rested, until he read off of Fenris’ wall clock that it was past nine, and he _still_ had to make bouquets. Under what must have been severe protestation from Fenris (his brow crinkled and lips turned down, and Anders had to firmly tell himself that he’d decided against swooning) he staggered out of Fenris’ sweet-smelling apartment and across the street, to where Cupid and the flower shop waited.

So his day went on, though he felt sand-eyed and his throat ached (which made phone calls an absolute bitch). Cupid slept in the front window, then disappeared (probably to bother Fenris some more, or so Anders hoped.

The bell at his door jingled, and a semi-familiar voice called out “Hey, Blondie.”

“Varric!” Anders said. “Morning.”

The dwarf squinted at him. “We don’t know each other that well, but I thought there were some sparks flying last night between you and the elf, and now here you sound like shit. Am I going to have to talk to the elf about things?”

“What—oh, eugh,” Anders said, grinning. “That’s none of your business, you randy dwarf. What are you doing here? Not that it’s not nice to see you.”

“I’m thinking some flowers for the bar,” Varric said. “Make ‘em all meaningful and shit. Language of flowers and all that.”

“Varric, I’ve got nothing here at the moment with the meaning 'Free tequila shots if it’s your birthday.’ Sorry.”

“That’s fine, I was looking for something more 'Break it up before I call the police'”.

“I think I can manage that,” Anders said, and set to work. Tiger lilies, foxgloves, larkspur and orange carnations, and one cheeky bird of paradise.

“Nice,” Varric said when he saw the resulting bouquet. “It’s got a lotta color and pop.”

“For my new favorite dwarf, a bouquet with the meaning 'Avert your eyes before I blind you with my finery'”.

“Thanks, Blondie. Appreciated,” the dwarf said drily, popping up the collar of his half-unbuttoned tropical-patterned shirt, in whose depths gleamed a wealth of gold chains and chest hair. “Keep the change.” he added, dropping two twenties on the counter.

“Nice, thanks,” Anders said. His attention was caught by one of the many, _many_ Shasta daises he had in  stock, that was drooping before its time in the vase next to the till.

A little tap and Creation energy had it perking back up again.

“Oh shit,” he heard Varric say.

“What?” Anders said a little defensively. In some towns the old prejudices still existed but he’d thought surely a  _dwarf_ wouldn’t care.

“Nothing,” Varric said. “Er.” His eyes darted outside, almost as if he was looking for someone.

Then he cleared his throat, and seemed to get over Anders’ unconscious little display.  “We open at lunch, Blondie, and I want you to darken my doorstep more often than not, seeing as it’s so close to yours.”

“Noted,” Anders said, and watched bouquet and dwarf walk out the door, leaving him to hard work, cold flower-scented air and sleepy daydreams.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have had an update; I added _emotional hurt, angst and feels,_ and _implied/referenced abuse_. Oh, and AU: modern with magic, but... I think that one is a bit obvious.

_ Kidnapped by a blood mage.  A blood mage. A mage, a blood mage, a blood mage, kidnapped by one, kidnapped by a blood mage, not that one, not  _ him _ , no, no, breathe, breathe.  _ Cupid  yowls, leaping off his lap and skittering around the corner of a large stand full of second hand horror pulps.  Fenris looks up, blinking as the animal glares at him from behind its makeshift shelter.  He looks at his hand, sees the clumps of fur, and his brow creases in consternation.  Anders’ words, uttered so blithely this morning, had been circling and warping in his head.  He cannot recall what he said in response, only really came back to himself as Anders had realised the time and gone back to his store to open it.  

Fenris looks at the cat again, and tries to squash the guilt at hurting it.  He huffs a sigh and says, “You know, you can always go back home.  You seem to have two for now, beast.  I would make the most of it…” _ while you can _ , he had been going to say, and stops, frowning at himself.  But then, this morning had been so pleasant, at least until the near-death experience - surely it was natural to want more of it?  And wasn’t that a fairly natural progression, to think that perhaps, if all went according to plan, then perhaps…  _ perhaps you might live together, _ Fenris thinks, and swallows.  He sighs, shaking his head at himself and stands up, meaning to go into the back office and get the orders done.  As he does, he glances through the large window which serves as his shop front.  Huh.  Varric, going into Anders’.  What on earth could he want?

He is contemplating this when the bell chimes over his own shop door.  He deliberately ignores it, continuing to stare out the window, until a sing-song voice says, rather tentatively, “Um, Fenris?  Are you alright?”

He turns his head, looking at the newcomer, and raises an eyebrow at Merrill.  She smiles nervously at him, then raises a white plastic bag.  “I found these!  Books on Dalish lore, most of them,” she smiles again, apologetically, and shrugs.  “I know you said you didn’t want that sort of thing.  And I know you said most of it was tat, re-written by sh...humans, but it’s not really tat, some of them are really good, well known actual-Dalish authors and things?  And I was going to take them to Pol, but I thought you might at least want to look at them?”

Fenris only looks at her for a moment, and she quails slightly, the bag of books lowering a little.  Then she swallows and lifts her chin, and for a moment, there is defiance there, and he sighs.  He knows she means well, but the fact of it is… she is…  _ magic-enabled _ and  _ witch _ both cross his mind in the same instant, and he bites the inside of his cheek.  “Thank you, Merrill,” he says stiffly, and reaches a hand out for the bag, trying not to be obvious that he’s trying not to touch her in the process.  She seems to realise anyway, and shifts her grip so that she is supporting the books from below, leaving the handles free for him to grab.  When he takes them from her, she smiles broadly and cocks her head, looking at him curiously, then glances out the window and sighs.  

“Oooh, were you looking at Anders’ shop?  You two were so sweet last night,” she smiles wistfully, then looks back at him. “And it’s so nice to think that things might be changing for you, that, y’know, that magic maybe isn’t such a big deal for you.  Because of him.  That’s really amazing.  True love really does…”  She pauses, the words tapering off as she stares at him.  “Fenris?  Are you alright?”

He cannot speak.  At first, he’d been puzzled by Merrill’s words, and then suddenly, the realisation had blinded him.  She had thought that magic wasn’t such a big deal because here he was  _ consorting with a mage _ .  Anders.  A  _ mage _ .  He feels his face twitch, and every breath is suddenly pain, terror.  His guts clench, and Merrill continues to stare at him, clearly horrified.  “Oh Creators,” she moans, “Creators, you didn’t know, oh no, no, this doesn’t change anything, he’s still him, he’s still lovely, you can…”

“I can  _ nothing _ ,” Fenris says, appalled at how furious he sounds.  He’s not angry, not really, but he is terrified, and his mind whirls horribly, circling back in on those words,  _ a blood mage, a blood mage kidnapped and bound up, noNONO, he’s a mage, it’s because of him because of him he’s still lovely, he’s still him, but he’s always been a mage, oh no, please NO NO blood mage mage mage and he didn’t say he never said, and YOU KISSED HIM, you would have… you would have…  _ He gasps and shudders, squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting both fists into them.  

He stays that way for a long time, trying to get himself back under control.  It can’t be true.  It just can’t.  How on earth will he face Anders again, knowing this?  He feels Cupid swirl around his ankles, suppresses a desire to kick it away.  And the fact that he never said… he sighs, and gasps again when he feels a tentative hand on his arm, pulls his hands away from his eyes in time to see Merrill flinch backward.  

She looks miserable.  “Please,” she asks, her voice full of emotion, “Fenris, I know this is hard.  I do.  But… but if you love him, if… if he loves you, then…”  Her bottom lip wobbles, and she shakes her head, looking at the ground.  “I have to get back to my shop.  Please though, please…”

The doorbell jangles overhead, and Anders pokes his head in the door, smiling shyly.  “Hello,” he says, and Merrill squeaks in surprise.  

“Hello!” she brays, too loud, too shrill, “I… uh, I should get going, I…”  and without finishing her sentence, she bolts for the door, flinging it open and almost running out of the store.  Anders blinks and turns slightly, following her retreating figure with his eyes for a moment before turning back to Fenris.  For a moment, Fenris considers telling him to get out, to never darken his door again, but he cannot make his mouth move.  He feels as if he is about to throw up.  Anders seems to realise something is amiss, but he smiles after a moment and says, “I had a visit from Varric, and he said he opens at noon.  Would you…” he clears his throat and the smile broadens slightly, “Would you like to have lunch together?  I promise not to choke.”

_ Choke _ , Fenris thinks viciously,  _ I hope you…  _ But he cannot complete the thought.  He folds his arms around himself slowly, wondering if he’ll ever be free of this, knowing he won’t.  “No,” he says finally, “I don’t feel well.  I am going upstairs to bed.”

“Oh,” Anders says, obviously disappointed, “Oh, can I do anything?”  Fenris shakes his head mutely, then approaches him, not wanting to, but needing to lock the door.  Anders takes a step backward and Fenris shuts the door, not wanting to see the hurt expression on Anders’ face, but seeing it anyway.  And he feels it, he feels crushed, raw, just as he imagines Anders feels, even as the door closes and he slides the bolts home.  Anders bends suddenly, on the other side of the glass and Fenris watches him as he picks Cupid up - the cat must have snuck past him as he’d closed the door.   _ Bye, _ Anders mouths, and raises Cupid’s paw, waving it, smiling sadly.  Fenris cannot help it.  He recoils slightly, horrified all over again at the deep, pure loathing he feels, the physical nature of the revulsion he holds for Anders, for what he is.  Those emotions curl and boil within him, wrestling with the love and loneliness; and suddenly, it is all much too much, and Fenris turns away, blinking the tears from his eyes as he does.  


	12. Chapter 12

Anders stepped into the dark coolness of the bar, smiling with a confidence he did not quite feel. He had released Cupid back to his wanderings after leaving Fenris’, and sped his steps to the Hanged Man.

You’re being paranoid, he had soothed himself. Fenris isn’t angry at you. He was so sweet when you left this morning. The thought buoyed him.

“Hey, Blondie,” Varric said. “Come sit at the bar.” The dwarf was waving him over with a menu.

“Varric,” Anders greeted him, and slid atop the seat offered. Next to him was a place laid out with a neat salad in a large white bowl and a cup of tea.

“Daisy’s,” Varric supplied. “You’re skin and bones, Blondie, how about I have Corff make you a patty melt? It’s not on the menu but it’s good.”

“Sure thing,” Anders said, and handed the menu back unopened. It was early for lunch, and the bar was fairly unoccupied, the music playing softly over the speakers. Anders felt a general sense of goodwill, and traced a cut in the bar with one finger idly. He hadn’t expected his first few weeks in Kirkwall to be so eventful, but he wasn’t complaining.

Varric stumped back from putting the order in, and paused to pull a beer, sliding it in front of Anders.

“It’s 11:30,” Anders protested.

Varric shook his head, and only then Anders noticed how serious he looked.

“We gotta talk about something,” Varric said, and Anders heart plummeted.

A door slamming loudly made both of them jump, and Anders turned to see Merrill come out of the back. Any relief he felt was gone as he took in her reddened eyes and woebegone expression, which deepened when she saw him.

“Oh, Anders,” she said coming up to the counter. “I’m so, so sorry…”

Anders’ heart stopped. Of course. One of them would Google him at some point, and there were a few articles that linked him to what had happened, the bereaved fiancee, his soon-to-be husband. He swallowed thickly, his throat still hurting, as he thought of his upcoming Tuesday visit, the smell of antiseptic belying the cheerful walls of the hospice, the researchers scattering like frightened birds when they saw him. He tried not to hate them. They were why he’d decided to pull up his roots and move to Kirkwall, instead of avoiding at all cost the unfamiliar city that he and Karl had been going to make their home.

Of all the indignities and horrors of the experience, the one he had not expected to consume his life was insurance. Yet as the years dragged on and he languished in Amarinthine, the lawyers administering Karl’s estate had finally been beaten into realizing that the first Tranquil in five hundred years was not going to be cured overnight, despite the research furor over him. So, three years to the day after all Karl was had been destroyed by vicious, monstrous mage-haters, Anders sat holding a deed, trying not to laugh through his tears.

When Karl had bought an old flower shop?

“Blondie,” Varric said, calling him back to himself. “Hey.”

“I thought you had told him,” Merrill was saying. “I would never have told him for you, I just thought–”

“Told who what?” Anders said. He couldn’t think of what Merrill could be talking about, or what she could have made her so distressed. He had just met them yesterday.

“She’s talking about Fenris,” Varric said with a sigh. “I hate to break it to you, Blondie, but…I don’t think what you two got going is gonna work.”

Anders drew back, offended, and Merrill gasped and gently put her hand on his forearm.

“He doesn’t mean it like that, Anders, it’s just…I’ve never done anything to him and he hates me.”

“What are you talking about?” Anders said. Had he stepped into some unknown feud without knowing about it? Already he felt defensive of Fenris.

“Sorry,” Varric said. “But he hates mages, Anders. Even ones like you that just make flowers grow.”

* * *

 

Also, look at this INCREDIBLE ART done for us, thank you [protect-him](http://protect-him.tumblr.com/post/149629737621/fanart-of-fenris-and-anders-from-stupid-cupid) !


	13. Chapter 13

There is no room for thought here.  Aveline’s gym, locally known as the Barracks, is almost abandoned at this time of day; just Aveline herself in the office and the two of them in the ring.  The air smells of chalk and sweat and leather, and Carver’s guard is dropped on the left.  No time to think, no time to wonder or rage or mourn.  Just the feel of the sweat inside his gloves as Carver swings wide and Fenris dances left then steps closer.  He takes the second punch, meant for his chest, on his glove and shoulder, then drives a fist up, into Carver’s ribs, the other following it in combination, deep into Carver’s solar plexus.  There is no room for thought here, no room for anything else, and that is just what he needs.

 

“Bloody hell, mate,” Carver laughs later, rubbing his hair with a towel.  “What crept up your arse tonight?  That wasn’t sparring - that was brutal.”

Fenris snorts.  The world is beginning to encroach again, and he dreads going back home.  He knows that everything he sees will remind him of Anders - and by extension, what Anders is.  “Nothing,” he states firmly, hoping Carver will leave it.

He doesn’t.  “You’re a bloody awful liar, Fen.”  He scowls suddenly and says, “Is it that new guy you’ve been seeing?  That florist?  I heard Izzy telling Aveline she thought you’d got yourself a fella when...”

“No.”  Fenris pauses, knowing his reply has been too swift, seeing Carver open his mouth to question again. “Yes then.  But it is none of your concern.”

 

“Like fuck it isn’t,” Carver growls, looking at him sternly.  “You’re my friend.  If he’s bothering…”

“It is nothing, Carver.  Leave it.”

Carver sighs.  “Okay,” he says slowly.  He frowns and then shrugs.  “As long as you know you can talk to me if you want.  Not that I’m in any position to offer advice.”

Carver grimaces at him then pulls his sweatshirt on and sits down on the bench, beginning to lace up his street shoes.  Fenris continues to unwind the hand wrap, then exhales.  Without preamble, he says, “He is a mage.  Anders.  He is a mage.”

 

“A… oh.  Oh, shit.”  Carver glances at him then makes a face.  “Bloody void.  You alright?”

“No. Not at all.”  Fenris speaks quietly, his stomach churning.  He recounts the story to Carver, everything from Cupid to the card game at the Hanged Man; the half-drunken proposition, the ill-fated breakfast, and then Merrill’s visit this afternoon.  When Fenris mentions her, Carver stiffens, then looks sad for a moment.  When Fenris is finished speaking, there is a long silence, then Carver takes a deep breath, holds it, then releases it slowly.

 

“Fen,” he begins, “None of us can help who we are.  What we are.”  He sighs again and rubs the back of his neck.  “Fuck.  I’m not good at this stuff.  But mate, you seemed to think he was pretty decent before you knew this about him.  Couldn’t you… I dunno…”

“No.  I can’t.  Carver, he could be  _ anything _ , anything at all and… and he didn’t tell me, weren’t you  _ listening _ …”

 

“I was listening,” Carver cuts him off, his tone of voice suddenly a little harsh.  He huffs out a breath, then looks at Fenris and says, “So you’re just gonna write him off.  Because you hate mages, and nothing will ever change that.  You hate my wife, even though she’d never hurt a fly - Maker’s Balls, Merrill cries when I put a spider outside in the rain.  You hate my sister, even though Bethy’s the most gentle person you’ll ever meet. And now, even though you might have loved this guy, this Anders, once, all that’s changed because you found out he’s a mage.  And now you hate him too.”

 

For a moment, Fenris is stunned to silence.  He feels anger flare deep within him, his fists tighten… and then it all evaporates, leaving him feeling hopeless, lost.  Slowly, he shakes his head.  “I do not… Carver, I do not hate Merrill.  Or Bethany.  They are fine people, worthy of respect and love.  I…”  He glances away and clenches his jaw, wrapping his arms around his torso.  He feels so small in the face of all of this.  After struggling for a moment, he continues, “Contrary to what you might think, I do not  _ hate _ mages.  I fear them; so deeply it feels boundless, endless. Knowing my history, as you do, is it so unreasonable that I should cut ties with him?  How could a relationship where one partner fears the other so much ever be a joyful one?”

 

Carver shakes his head and looks at Fenris mournfully.  “Dunno, mate.  I just don’t know.  I guess it couldn’t be.  But Fen, you gotta tell him to his face.  Don’t just cut him off.  If you felt something good for him, and you’re sure he felt it too, then… ah, Flames, I don’t know.  I told you, I’m not good at this shit.”  He rises from the bench and smiles ruefully at Fenris.  “You wanna come for a drink or something?  Talk it over?”

 

Mutely, Fenris shakes his head.  He feels utterly at sea - alone, afraid, angry.  “I do not think so.  Not tonight.”

Carver’s eyebrows lift, and he says gently, “Might be good for you though?  Have a few in the Hanged Man, maybe?  Just talk about anything, doesn’t have to be this.  Or I can come to yours, you could come to mine, Merrill reckons she’s gonna be home late…”

Fenris sighs abruptly and says, “Fine.  Let me get dressed.”

Carver beams, “There’s the Fen we all know and love.  Come on, asshole, I’ll let you buy the first round as payment for all the bruises I’m going to have tomorrow.”

“Sounds fair,” Fenris says and tries a smile. And then Anders returns to his mind, Anders waving the cat’s paw from the other side of the door he’d closed, and his smile turns to ash.


	14. Chapter 14

Anders stared at the food in front of him, and began grimly putting fries in his mouth. They felt dry and brittle, and he bypassed the beer in order to swig at the ice water that was probably Merrill’s.

“C'mon , Blondie, it’s not that bad,” Varric soothed. “He’s just got a lot going on. There’s a _reason_ to it. We’ve only gotten a few details ourselves, but–”

“Listen to yourself,” Anders said, struggling not to snap or glare at Varric. “It’s medieval to be afraid of mages. Is this what Kirkwall is like? Is this normal?”

“The ban on mages in Kirkwall was just lifted five years ago, there’s bound to be some uneasiness,” Varric said.

“Some _uneasiness_?” Anders said.

“Some downright ugliness, fine,” Varric said. “But you knew that.”

“How do you figure?” Anders said.

The dwarf shrugged. “The name of your shop? ‘Thekla Flowers?”’ That’s a name with a lot of connotations around here. I’m not sure if you knew.”

“We were all so shocked to see that sign going up,” Merrill said. “You know. Because of Karl Thekla.”

Anders had been half-prepared, but hearing the name still hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Oh, Blondie,” Varric said, his face falling as he read whatever expression his face was making. “Oh, damn.”

The worst of it was, Anders thought bleakly, was that he was still hungry, but eating a sandwich while tearing up was too pathetic even for him.

Merrill gently lay a wad of napkins next to his hand, and Anders gave his head a quick shake, taking a deep breath and banishing the ache in his eyes. Varric and Merrill were both watching him, with almost comically similar expressions of concern. Anders reminded himself that he wanted to be friends with these people.

“I think I’d like to eat, and not talk any more about mage-haters and my assorted troubles,” he said, trying for levity.

“Sure,” Varric said, looking almost as relieved as Anders felt. Merrill still looked woeful, but she smiled and picked at her salad.

“Varric says that you had a spell to make flowers grow,” she said after a moment.

“He was being mostly poetic,” Anders replied. “I can make them perk up if they wilt a little too soon, with Creation. Sometimes they get dehydrated so I–” he drew his fingers up. “I was in medical school, though I never finished, so sometimes I get a little creative in making sure what I sell is nice and healthy. I wonder what my professors would think of me now, using spirit wisps to repair broken stems.”

“I’d love to see that,” Merrill said. “Your Spirit plant healing, I mean.”

“Isn’t plant-based magic an elf specialty, though?” Anders asked. Merrill’s sweet face took on an expression that Anders recognized well from his younger days—faint exasperation.

He was far into a lecture on what was and what wasn’t traditional elf magic when the bar door opened, and an enormous young man stepped into the bar.

“Carver!” Merrill said, sliding off her stool to embrace him. Anders had been wondering if one of her many rings had been a wedding ring, and seeing the couple kiss confirmed it.

“Varric,” the man—Carver—said. “We’ve come to drown a few sorrows. Well, I’ve come for a beer, but Fenris could probably do with a couple on the house. Love troubles. And mage troubles. Both, really, but Fenris never does anything by halves.”

“Car _ver,”_ Merrill said.

“What?” Carver said. “He’ll know about it soon enough, all of you spill your secrets to each other like the five o'clock news.”

But Anders only had eyes for Fenris, who had come in behind the blustering young man and was looking at him–

How had Anders not seen it, earlier in the day? It wasn’t shyness, or tiredness on Fenris’ face.

It was coldness. The elf stood there, almost unrecognizable from the man Anders had thrown himself at the night before. The difference seemed enormous—lowered brows, a curled lip. Anders felt whatever connection they had shrivel. Undoubtedly it had died for Fenris the moment he heard the word  _mage._

Anders had met too many people like Fenris in his life, and he’d be damned if he would let Fenris see how this had gotten to him. There was no way for Anders to laugh this off, to play the buffoon about his magic in order to soothe the fears of those around him. Not after what had happened.

“Trouble was just leaving,” Anders said, with all the coolness he himself could muster. “Thanks for lunch, Varric,” he added, putting a ten down. He’d not eaten most of it, and his eyes were caught by the bouquet he’d made earlier that day at the end of the counter, its oranges and purples cheery.

He doubted he’d come back here much–this was the final straw. It was all proving too much for him, too fast. Hawke, Varric, Merrill—they’d all been Fenris’ friends first. Why would they want to introduce someone into their group like him, who had nearly proved so divisive? Anders had to be strong, and if that meant being alone for longer, than that was what it was going to take. He rose to his feet to leave.  

“Who are you—oh.” For what it was worth, Merrill’s husband looked abashed, at least for a split second while Anders brushed by him.

He didn’t meet Fenris’ eyes as he left, but he could feel them.

He welcomed the anger and scorn that welled up in his chest.

 _Mage-hater,_ he thought, and let himself out into the street.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the hard bit. I've added a tag 'arguing', but that doesn't really do what Fenris and Anders do here justice. There is a lot of cruel stuff that these idiots say to each other in this chapter, so if you don't wanna read it I totally understand.

“Fenris!  No!”

 

That is all Carver has time to shout.  But Fenris is out the door, turning a split second after Anders had walked past him with his eyes averted, as if he was a stranger, as if he was  _ dirt _ .  The door hits his palm on the rebound and he throws it open again, so hard it crashes into the outside wall with a loud bang.  Anders does not look back at the noise; if anything, he quickens his pace.   _ Why are you doing this _ ? some part of Fenris’ mind wonders,  _ Just leave it, leave him be _ .  But he can’t.  He can’t.

 

Again, Fenris hears his name at his back, this time in Varric’s voice, and it sets him into a jog.  Anders is still ahead, and Fenris watches as he swipes his forearm over his eyes, bows his head, his shoulders hunched.   _ You did that to him _ , that same part of his mind tells him, and he thrusts the thought angrily aside.  He is gaining on Anders, reaching an arm out to grab him, turn him bodily around, when Anders stops abruptly and rounds on him.

 “Just fuck off, would you?  Maker, I never asked for this.  Just leave me alone!”  His voice is high, almost hysterical, and for a moment it gives Fenris pause. Then his anger flares within him and he yells in return, “And you think I did?  I never asked either!  But perhaps I should have.”  He lowers his voice, seething at Anders, “Because it was not like you were forthcoming with the information.”

“ _ What _ information?  That I’m a mage?  Are you that bigoted, that you need people to submit… I don’t know, a fucking resume before you kiss them?  What does it even matter?  Why would it matter?”

“It matters to me!”  Fenris cries suddenly, his fists clenched.  He is aware of people on the street starting to watch them now, and hears Carver say quietly behind him, “C’mon mate, just…”  A hand reaches for his elbow and he shrugs it off.  Lowering his chin, he stares belligerently at Anders, who stands stock still, his eyes blazing.

 

Coldly, never relinquishing Anders’ gaze, Fenris pulls up the sleeve of his thin shirt.  He holds out his arm, and says, his voice cracking, “It matters to me.  Do you see these?  These marks on my skin?”

Wordlessly, Anders nods.  There is a moment of quiet, then Fenris growls, “Before I had these, I was normal.  Before I had these, I knew who my mother was; I knew my name.  Since I got them, all I know is that I hurt all the time; that my body, my mind has been taken from me once before, used in the grossest possible form.  And I know who did that to me.  I know he was a mage.”  He clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring, his throat dry.  “Who is to say that it will not happen again?  What does magic touch that it does not spoil?”

 

He rubs a hand across his mouth, dropping his gaze.  He hates the feeling of the bile rising in his throat, the tears to his eyes - but more than both of these things, he hates the memory of Danarius, that through Anders, he had been forced to speak of him, even obliquely.  After a moment, he looks up again.  Anders is standing before him with his head down, his fists clenched at his side.  It seems as if they are caught in some cruel moment where they will be forced to replay this terrible distance between them until the end of time.  

 

Then suddenly, Anders looks up.  He has been crying, Fenris sees it in his red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracks on his cheeks.  “So you think we’re all the same, then?”  Anders asks, his voice soft, suddenly treacherous, “You think that because some mage did this to you once, that we’re all just…”  He shakes his head quickly, and his look of sadness turns to one of complete rage so swiftly that Fenris cannot quite believe what he is seeing.  “You know what?  Fuck you.  Because people like you ruined my fucking life, Fenris.  They took everything,  _ everything _ I ever loved from me.  And you know what?  I’m done, I’m done with lying down and taking that shit.  Because I’ll never get him back, I’ll never get any of it back, and you know what?  I’m glad that some mage somewhere had the balls to stick up for us, that whoever they were took some fucking power back.”  He bends suddenly, and Fenris thinks that he’s been suddenly overcome with emotion, but no, he is bending down to pick up his  _ fucking stupid cat _ , Maker, could he be any more ridiculous, this whole thing is so stupid, so achingly, terrifyingly stupid that it all makes Fenris feel incredibly tired.  “Just go to hell, Fenris.  I don’t want to see you anymore.  And if you touch my cat again, I’ll show you why mages are feared.  Are we clear?”

 

“Clear,” Fenris tells him, and Anders turns on his heel, walking swiftly away.  He stomps up the fire-escape, drops his keys, picks them up and Cupid struggles free, racing down the fire-escape, back toward Fenris.  His heart sinks as he watches the little animal galloping toward him, and he turns to cross the road toward his flat, suddenly blinded by tears.   “Fen!” he hears, a woman’s voice, shrill and loud, then there is a screech of breaks, a horn; the world is pain for a moment, and then there is nothing.

 

He dreams of warm hands, gentle lips.  He dreams of red-gold hair and a dizzying laugh.  He dreams of sleepy mornings, soft words.  They’re all just dreams, he knows what they are.  They are all coloured with regret.

 

“Bloody hell, Broody,” Varric says, his voice raspy with lack of sleep.  “Bloody hell.  It’s good to see you.”

“Varric?  I… what happened?”

“Well, shit.  I don’t know how much you remember…”

Fenris clears his throat, winces and goes to touch his ribs.  One arm is in plaster; his ribs hurt every time he breathes.  He frowns, then swallows.  “I remember… turning to go back home.  After talking to Anders.”  He pauses, narrowing his eyes a little, “Carver was there.  So were you.”

“Talkin’.  Yeah.  There’s a lot of words I’d use to describe what you and Anders were doin’, but talkin’ doesn’t even make the list.”  Varric sighs and rubs one hand against a stubbled cheek.  “Fenris, you got hit by a car.  And you better think of some pretty great ways of making it up to Blondie, because without him - dude, you’d be toast.”

 

Fenris snorts in disdain and winces again.  “Varric,” he says, “What could he possibly have to do with this?  He is a mage, not a miracle worker.  I doubt very much he saved me from death.”  He looks away from Varric’s bright stare and mutters, “Certainly not now, anyway.”

Varric huffs in annoyance and Fenris looks at him again.  There is a pause, and then Varric says, “Of all the fuckin’ donkey-headed bastards, you take the fuckin’ cake.  Don’t you read any of those trashy romances you sell?”  When Fenris is silent, Varric arches an eyebrow and says, “Guess not.  I dunno how it works, but Anders did  _ something  _ great to you, and when the EMT’s got to you, that’s what they said.  That if Anders hadn’t done his sparkle-fingers routine, you’d be dead.”  Varric shrugs again and rises.  “Look.  I’m not gonna get in the way of things - you know me, I like a quiet life.  But you both said some really serious shit to each other, and  _ he still saved your ass _ .  Broody, if that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.”  

 

Fenris swallows, lost for words.  “But…” he begins, then bites his lips together, his stomach churning.  There is quiet in the ward, just the low mutter of other peoples conversations, canned laughter from a television set down the corridor.  He hears Varric exhale, then he says softly, “Just think about it, huh?”  He shifts a little, Fenris sees it from the corner of his eye, and then Varric makes a short noise of surprise.  “Oh yeah!  Almost forgot.  Your shop’s okay. Between me and Aveline, we’re looking out for it.  Doc reckons you’ll be a few more days in here, recovering and shit.  Just…”  Fenris hears Varric swallow noisily, but he does not look up.  Another long silence ensues, and finally Varric blows out a breath.  “Well, shit,” he says fondly, “Feel better, Broody.  Merrill’ll be up tomorrow to bug you back to good health.  Reckons she found some Dalish fairy tales this time.  That oughta be something to look forward to, don’t you think?”  He leans over, pats Fenris gingerly on the leg, “Just think about what I said, alright?”

 

Fenris nods quickly then glances at Varric, who smiles.  “Feel better, Broody,” he repeats, then mutters almost under his breath, “I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”

_ You and me both _ , Fenris thinks and looks out the window at the end of the ward.  Rain patters against the glass and he wonders how he could need someone so much while at the same time, fearing everything they were.  He hears Varric walk away and wipes a hand absently over his eyes.   _ Feel better _ , Varric had told him - but how could he?  How could he feel better when just when the world had looked so fresh, so new and inviting, it had all gone so terribly wrong?


	16. Chapter 16

Anders had only one desire—to get as far away from Fenris as possible. When Cupid had started scrabbling at his arms, wiggling to be let free, he had tried to hold on tighter, but to no avail—Cupid slid out from his hold and darted into the road.

Anders turned, and his heart leapt into his throat—this was a busy street, which everyone seemed to forget. He had forgotten

And Fenris hadn’t moved, had stood watching him, so absorbed in the darkness that he had spewed at Anders that he did not see the car coming.

Cupid stopped dead at the screeching of the tires, and ran at the collision.

While everything else had seemed so loud, Fenris hadn’t made a sound when he hit the ground.

The driver tore himself out of his car, cursing, and Anders, stunned, watched as Merrill and her husband raced to Fenris’ supine form. Shouting echoed in Anders’ ears, and his vision narrowed on Merrill’s upturned face. Shouting at him in anger. No.

In command.

“Anders!”

With weak legs, he stumbled over and knelt on the hard pavement—and nearly retched at Fenris’ half-lidded, dead eyes.

Merrill was speaking to him rapidly, but Anders couldn’t hear a word. Carver was holding one of Fenris’ wrists, and his face slackened slightly after a few moments—in relief, Anders realized.

“Unconscious,” he stated, pulling out a phone. The world  came whooshing back in, and Anders suddenly felt the pavement under his knees, the shouting in his ears. He still jumped when Merrill grabbed his wrist.

“Anders, you’re a Spirit Healer—you…”

And wordless, she placed his hand on Fenris’ shoulder.

He could feel two things with immediacy—one, blood soaking through the shredded shirt, and two, a softness in the Veil, and several entities pressing at his mind, familiar yet inhuman.

Anders took a breath that he had been denying himself, and closed his eyes. He only opened them again when the paramedics and police arrived, to take him and Fenris away.

* * *

Anders stared at the brawny red-haired woman across the desk in the police station. Aveline had seemed nice enough when he had been drinking with her, but her flat expression was entirely unfriendly now.

“I’m not saying anything without a lawyer,” he said, exactly when she opened her mouth. Karl had drilled that into him over the years, he thought with bleak humor.

The look Aveline gave him was disgusted.

“You’re not charged with anything,” Aveline said. “You two didn’t lay a hand on each other, and your little pissing match in the street lasted only about two minutes—there’s worse every night outside Varric’s bar.”

“No,” Aveline continued, “I want to know what you did to Fenris after the fact.”

“…healing magic,” Anders said after a moment.

“You run a flower shop,” Aveline countered.

“I was almost a doctor,” Anders said.

“Oh, good, almost a doctor,” Aveline said sarcastically. “If Fenris gets any lasting complications from this, I _am_ dragging you in.”

“How Templar-like,” Anders said sourly.

“Don’t associate me with those crazies,” Aveline said, her chair creaking as she leaned forward. “Expound on the magic.”

“He had a cracked skull, some intercranial bleeding,” Anders said. “That was the dangerous part. I cleared that up. His ribs were fucked, I handled that too. I ran out of mana before I got to the arm, but I reduced some of the swelling so it can be set easier. He’ll be fine.

Well, probably. Fenris was such a hypocrite, he thought bitterly. No one with such an insane amount of unstable magical body modifications had any right to hate on Anders for magic. Anders had been disbelieving at their extent, as he and the spirit wisps had put the elf to rights. Maybe Fenris’ anger was extreme buyer’s remorse.

Aveline set back in her chair heavily. Anders felt wrung-out as a rag, and the smell of old carpet and coffee was starting to get to him. His hands still felt tacky with blood—the last time he had blood on his hands was when the tender skin on Karl’s burned forehead had broken, and he had dabbed at it with tissue as his lover had gazed past him blankly.

“I believe you,” Aveline said slowly, and Anders rolled his eyes. “It seems incredible but Varric said that Fenris looked way worse before you got going, and I’m going to trust him for once.”

“Can I go?” Anders said tersely.

Aveline wasn’t finished. “ That‘s quite the gift you’ve got there. You could save so many lives, and you work in a flower shop?” The disgust was back.

“Nice, thanks,” Anders replied, and anything else he might have said was interrupted by shouting from outside. Carver and the man who hit Fenris were being ushered in by grim-faced cops, the latter with the beginning of a shiner.

“For the Maker’s sake,“ Aveline said sourly. “You’re quite the troublemaker, Anders.”

 _You don’t have to tell me that twice,_  Anders thought bleakly.


	17. An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a break from our regular points of view for the moment. This is a retrospective of Cupid's first meeting with Fenris.

The street is quiet, still.  Cupid scents the air - he smells the Man, his Man.  This is their territory.  He’d thought it would be hard to establish a new place for them, with the big beasts the People ride in so close, roaring past on the black, stinky line.  The Man called that line  _ the road _ .  The beasts were obviously hostile to everything, so fast, so  _ loud _ , but the People had tamed them.  Their food  _ is _ good, so maybe that was how they did it.  Cupid does not know.

 

He does know that his Man is sad, and has been for a long time.  All Cupid can do is sit with him, give him comfort.  It’s been better since they moved here, but there are still days when the Man smells like the wind before it rains, and Cupid knows those are the days where the Man feels most alone.  Those are the days where they sit together on the couch, and the Man will press his face into Cupid’s fur and water will come from his eyes.  Cupid doesn’t understand it, but he knows it has to change.

 

He discovers their territory, protects it for the Man.  One day, on his wandering, he had crossed  _ the road _ where the roaring beasts ran, the black surface warm under his paws.  There had been an open door and the scent of paper - and paper meant mice.  Sure enough, there was the scent of another animal against the wall in the room full of paper.  There was the scent of another man too, something raw and bright, something… else.  Something akin to how the Man smelled sometimes - that same smell of the wind before rain.

 

But there was the smell of fresh meat, of  _ live _ meat, and Cupid’s mouth watered, his focus going to the wall, to that scent.  There was no clear way that Cupid could see to getting the mouse, not at the moment, not that he could see… but there was a narrow staircase, and Cupid, succumbing to instinct, had peered at it curiously for a moment before beginning to climb.

 

At the top of the stairs, the smell of the other man was stronger, but the door was closed.  Cupid had sat down, looking at the door.  He heard quiet footsteps on the other side, then the door was opened quickly, and the other man stood there.  Cupid looked at him, eyes bright, muscles tensed, ready to flee - but the man simply looked at him.  He had miaowed at Cupid in that strange way People had, just one word:  _ hello _ .  His voice was cautious, but friendly, and then he stepped back into the room he had come from.   Cupid stood, wondering if the other man wanted him to follow; but in a moment, he was back, closing the door behind him, something in his other hand.  The other man had bent at the waist then crouched, putting down a saucer of milk.  Cupid had cocked his head, nostrils flaring as he scented the air, the rich scent of the white liquid, then approached.  The man moved away from the saucer, shifting his white fur over his ear.  Keeping him in view, Cupid bent his head over the milk, began to lap it up.  He paused, tensed again as the man rose slowly, then relaxed again as the man descended the stairs.

 

After the milk was gone, Cupid had descended the stairs again.  The man was there, sitting at a wooden structure, his forehead resting on one hand, staring at something on the surface of it.  Cupid paused, crouched, and leapt up on the wooden structure, and the man gave a start, then laughed.  Cupid looked at him, curious, the strange smell, that bleak, bright scent of the man, mixed with the smell of the wind before rain, that smell all in his nose, and the man smiled a little and held out his hand.  Cupid regarded it, then moved his head, rubbing it against the man’s fingers.  

 

This man and his Man smelled the same.  Maybe that meant something.  All Cupid knows is that things cannot stay as they are.  His Man is too alone, too much time spent brooding on what might have been.  Cupid cannot help him on his own; perhaps this man can help.  But whatever comes, he knows one thing.  

  
  
This has to change.  


	18. Chapter 18

“Get out,” Fenris says softly and shunts the cat with his toe toward the window.  Cupid miaows then rubs the top of his head against the sole of Fenris’ foot.  Fenris sighs and puts down his book.

 

It is late - far later than he’d realized.  It has been four weeks since the accident, and he’s been back at home for three of those.  The short stay in the hospital has become a blip in his memory; perhaps one day he will forget it entirely, once he gets rid of this sling.  The doctors had warned him to rest the arm - to think, hit by a car, and to come out with nothing worse than a broken arm.  Impossible.   _ And to think, _ something in him whispers,  _ You have not even said thank you to the man who saved your life _ .  He sighs again and rubs his chest as he stands up from the easy chair, wondering if one day, he will forget Anders too.  Forgetting would be easier than this.  Cupid miaows up at him, and he looks down at it.  “Not that you are making the forgetting any easier,” he chides the animal, who almost seems to smile at him by way of response.

 

The curtains are still undrawn, and the late summer moths bat deliriously against the glass.  As Fenris crosses the room, over toward the little table at which Anders had once sat, blushing and smiling as he’d swiped jam over his brioche, he tries not to look up, across the road to the building across the street.  It is four weeks now since they had last spoken - four weeks since Anders had told him he never wanted to see him again, since he’d saved his life.  A moth flutters inside, through the open window, flying up to join some of its fellows clinging to the overhead lamp.  Fenris pulls the curtain aside, over the casement, and then turns, walking over to where Cupid sits, nonchalantly washing a hind leg.  “Go on,” he tells it, and the animal looks up, tongue poking out of its mouth.  “You look foolish,” Fenris growls, “And I know you think that I find that charming.  But that will not save you.  Now, out.”  Cupid does not move for a second, then blinks and turns its face to its upraised leg again.  

 

Fenris huffs and, bending down quickly, scoops the cat up awkwardly with his unbandaged arm.  Cupid makes no comment - but when it realizes in which direction Fenris is heading, it struggles against his grip.  “We have spoken of this,” Fenris tells it, clinging tighter to the soft fur, “I am not welcome in your company anymore.  Anders decided it.  And I do not feed you, I do not want you here.  Not anymore.”

_ Liar _ , something in him whispers, and he promptly squashes the thought.  Gently, he tips Cupid out of the open window, onto the fire escape, and quickly shuts the window again before the animal can simply turn and leap back in.  For a moment, they stare at each other, one either side of the glass, and then Fenris looks up.

 

He is there.  Anders.  He stands framed by the golden light of his little apartment above the florist, holding one hand up to the side of his head as if he is on the phone.  He is laughing, running the other hand through his hair.   _ He’s found someone else _ , the traitorous little part of his mind whispers to him, and Fenris smiles sadly.  Of course he has.  Kind, generous souls like Anders, people who wore their hearts on their sleeves, they were never lonely for long.  Fenris swallows, feels his heart clench and then pulls the drape closed.

 

His friends have called him all the names under the sun, tried to cajole and irritate him into breaking the detente.  Last week, playing cards in the Hanged Man, he had become so incensed by the continued litany of  _ stop being so stubborn, just talk to him, it’s not that bad, everyone says things they don’t mean, you think you’re the only couple to ever fight?, oh Fenris just talk to him talk to him talk to him please _ that he had slammed his cards down on the table, making a huge crash which had silenced the bar for a second.  “I know you all have an opinion,” he had growled as the general hubbub resumed, sweeping his eyes around those assembled, “But I am warning you now -  _ back off _ .”  

 

Merrill had looked shocked, then confused.  “But  _ why _ won’t you talk to him..?”, she’d asked, gesturing so that the whole table could see her (rather good) hand of cards, and Carver had rolled his eyes at Fenris, before putting his arm around her.  “Because he’s an idiot,” he had said and shook his head.

 

Isabela had shrugged, raised her eyebrows and stared at Fenris challengingly.  “Well, I couldn’t have said it better myself,” she’d told him.  “You  _ are _ being an idiot.  And I mean, you could have at least waited until  _ after _ you’d shagged him.”  She had sighed theatrically and said, “But he must have meant  _ something  _ to you - otherwise you wouldn’t be so bent out of shape about it all. Honestly,” she rolled her eyes and elbowed Hawke, “ _ Men,  _ am I right?”

 

Hawke had only shrugged, refusing to comment.  Isabela huffed and Varric had sighed.  “She’s got a point, Broody.  But you know what?  It’s your gig.  You wanna die an old, lonely man, wondering what might have been, that’s up to you.”  He had looked back down at his cards and frowned, “At least you’re consistent.  Wouldn’t wanna have to change your nickname at this stage.”

 

Fenris bites his lip, remembering the conversation, his hand still on the curtain.  What can he do, though?  It changes nothing; Anders is still a mage, he has not relented his position or made any attempt to contact him.  When they accidentally cross paths - which happens very seldomly, since they keep such different hours - they ignore each others presence.  It hurts, certainly.  But hurt fades with time.   _ Some hurts _ , he amends mentally, his eyes drawn to the white markings on his fingers.  He swallows the disgust he feels for them and drops his hand.

 

-|||-

 

Fenris shifts from foot to foot, his irritation growing by the moment.  “No,” he says to this persistent customer, who pouts, “I do not carry that particular series of works.  Perhaps you might try my competitor.”  He sneers, “The one with the  _ cafe. _ ”

“But…” the customer begins imploringly, and Fenris shakes his head, raising one hand.

“I do not have it, will never order it, and no, I will not change my mind.  Does that answer your questions?”

“I suppose…”

“Excellent.  Then, unless there’s anything else I can help you with..?”  But the customer is already turning, irritation sketched roughly over their features.  Fenris sighs and rolls his eyes as the bell over the door jingles.  “Boy wizards,” he mutters with some distaste.  The shop is empty now, and so he throws himself into the chair behind the desk, putting his feet up on it amongst the paper order forms, a browning apple core, and… Fenris wrinkles his nose, puts his feet down upon the floor again and peers at the hunched, bloodied pile of fur on his desk.  A mouse.  A  _ dead _ mouse.  Clearly killed rather viciously, and not that long ago.  He looks around, hisses, “Cupid?” low under his breath, but the beast does not show itself.  “Disgusting,” he murmurs, and picks the little dead thing up by its tail, staring at it.  The bell over the shop door goes, and he hastily stows the mouse's body underneath his paperwork and looks up to greet his new customer.

 

It is only Aveline.  She stands in the middle of the shop floor with her arms folded, there beside the table of new paperbacks with its featured author display.  He looks at her, eyebrows raised, and finally asks, “What?”

“Bad news,” she tells him.  “You know those names you gave me, a long time ago?  Hadriana and…”

“Yes,” Fenris says, every reaction feeling like he is suddenly underwater - his throat seems on fire, his lungs won’t fill and no, no, Maker, no, not this.  Not  _ him _ .

 

Aveline sniffs, and for a moment, her defenses crumble and she looks at him, her expression softening.  “Nothing confirmed.  But we co-operated on a Marches-wide sting on people smuggling a couple of weeks ago, eyes-and-ears stuff.  Nothing major.  I just finished reading the report of that.”  Aveline swallows, hard, and that fierce expression returns to her face as she shifts uncomfortably.  “Their names were mentioned as potentials, higher up the food chain than the guys the sting brought in.  Lot of Tevinter all over that operation.”  She sighs and shakes her head.  “I’m sorry I don’t have more for you.  It might come to nothing, we don’t know.  And… I can’t offer you much in the way of protection, not until…”

 

“Something happens.”  Fenris finishes her sentence for her and then clenches his jaw.  “I know.”  

Aveline shifts again and the look of discomfort deepens.  “You know,” she begins, “I heard about the fight, between you and…” She gestures over her shoulder, toward the florist shop, “And… I know it’s not my business.  But… any port in a storm.  He’s your closest neighbor.  Wouldn’t it make sense to at least try to mend your fences?”

Fenris snorts.  “You are right.  It is not your business.  And I will not run from one mage straight into another.  I am more than capable of looking after myself.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Aveline sighs.  “Alright.  You know where I am if you need me.  Donnic’s just down the road at the gym, Carver seems to pretty much live there too, and…”

 

“Aveline.  Stop.”  Fenris takes a deep breath, clenches his hands into fists to stop them shaking.  “Thank you for letting me know.  You remembered, years after I told you…” he stops, slightly bewildered that she had kept the two names he’d given her in her mind, all this time.  After a moment, Fenris shakes his head and continues, “I appreciate your concern.  Certainly, if I hear anything, I will let you know.”  He tries to smile and fails, coughs awkwardly to cover it.  “Thank you,” he tells her again.

 

Aveline shakes her head.  “I wish I had more for you.  I wish we could take these bastards out, make them gone, for everything they’ve done to you.  You’re a good friend, Fen.”  She smiles at him rather grimly.  “But that’s why the law’s there, isn’t it?  To stop good people getting hurt?”  She sniffs again, wrinkles her nose and looks at the floor.  “Wish you’d reconsider about the neighbor, but… I understand.  Some hurts run a bit too deep to be bandaged with a  _ sorry _ .”  

 

Fenris nods.  It is all he can bring himself to do.  His gaze slides away from Aveline, out the shopfront window, across the street to the florist's shop.   _ He saved you once _ , he thinks, and he wants, with all his heart to reach out, to apologize for the things he’s said, to try and make things right again.   _ Stupid _ , he tells himself,  _ you can deal with this.  You have dealt with worse.  Do not trust one to save you from the other.  Save yourself. _

 

The thought makes his lips curl into a small smile, and then he notices Aveline frowning at him.  “Yes,” he tells her, “I agree.  Perhaps I will.  Thank you, Aveline.”

 

“It’s alright,” she tells him and turns slowly, walking away.  “You coming by the gym later?  Or going to the pub?  Please tell me you’re not going to sit in the dark drinking red wine and reading poetry.”

Fenris chuckles.  “That sounds like a wonderful evening.  Perhaps I should give you some poetry.  You seem to need it more than I do.  Perhaps a book of romantic sonnets?   _ Shall I compare thee to a summers day _ ?”

 

“Get out of it,” Aveline growls and her cheeks flush pink.  He laughs - but the rock which has settled in his guts will not shift, and his smile fades as soon as she has left the building.  Dazedly, still with that awful feeling of drowning, he stares across the road at the bright blooms in front of Anders store, waving in the light breeze, wondering what might have been.


	19. Chapter 19

“Sigrun, that's not funny,” Anders said, but as he laughed he could hear her smile over the phone.

“What, you mean you don't want the old gang to show up and menace the neighbors?” she said.

“I'm pretty sure they already feel menaced enough by me,” Anders said. “I show up, and arrests and hospitalizations occur, and the local cops are keeping an eye on me. So pretty typical.”

“That's the Anders I know and love,” Sigrun said. “You sure though? We can roar up in the tactical van, tell all the pretty ladies at the bar stories about you—”

“I know I can't stop you if that's what you want to do, but I'm lodging objections,” Anders said. He was sitting on his fire escape, and the breeze was out again, ruffling his hair. He could smell distant grass being cut, and an undercurrent of cold made him shiver—summer was almost over.

A thunking noise called his attention—Cupid had raced up the fire escape. Purring furiously, the cat began rubbing his cheeks furiously on the knees of his jeans, and one-armed, Anders picked up the cat and hauled him onto his lap.

He bid Sigrun a goodbye and nuzzled his cat, who settled down and purred.

He put his phone down and looked out along the street, where leaves and plastic bags were being swept up in small vortexes, only occasionally disturbed by a passing car.

He'd had little contact with the other business owners on the street, except for catching a beer with Varric one night after the dwarf had nearly dragged him into the bar. Anders pursed his lips, remembering—he could have sworn he'd just put his phone down for a moment, but scrolling through his contacts earlier he'd found “ _Broody Elf (Fenris)”_ inputted, and in the space for the last name was “call him already”. It had taken some willpower not to delete it.

The windows of his shop were large and bright, and every morning he could see Fenris drag out his rolling bookshelves to the curb and then laboriously back in at night, one-armed. Fenris' bookstore had been closed for a week, then back to its normal hours as soon as the elf was released from the hospital.

His arm was splinted, not even in a cast. Anders could probably heal it in moments. But he had no qualms about letting Fenris make do—indeed, he had no illusions about how any offers on his part would be received.

He fought back thoughts of Fenris' deadened eyes, forehead bloody from the pavement.

He stood up, taking Cupid with him and sighed. It was past time going inside to get ready. Tuesdays were by far his least favorite day of the week.

He changed clothes first. Smoothing his grey t-shirt down—a nice unstained one—and shifting in his boots, he waited out front for the car from the research center. No matter how painful it was, he kept this Tuesday appointment. He had to make sure Karl was being treated well—the only reason he had agreed to this was in the hope that the researchers could find a cure, to restore some life into Karl's vacant blue eyes. There had been so much confidence at first—but as time went on, the assurances had become more equivocal, the smiles more forced.

Anders wasn't surprised. Tranquility had been a thing of the past, and what had happened to Karl had sent shockwaves through the magical community. Worst of all was that the group who had claimed responsibility continued to send threats to any mage vocal enough to speak up.

Anders' head jerked up as the gleaming black car, almost tank-like, pulled up to the curb. Popping open the door, he gave a distracted hello to the driver—across the street, he could see Varric and Hawke, cigarettes in hand, ambling down the street, probably towards Fenris'. He could see Hawke's head turn in his direction, and then the man said something to Varric. At a loss, Anders shut his door. As the car drove off, Anders sighed as both Varric's and Hawke's heads turned to follow. At least the windows were tinted.

It was a forty-five minute drive to the research facility, and Anders spent much of the time picking at his phone—ill-advised, though, for his battery was already low. On the edges of town, the facility would be an innocuous looking office building, if not for the wall around it and the alert guard who exchanged a few low words with the driver.

He clambered out of the car, and was ushered into the building by a guard. The institutional walls soon gave way to softer pastels, and Anders finally stood in front of Karl's door, bracing himself.

“Anders!”

Anders jumped a little, and turned to face the head researcher, a greying older elf.

Orsino,, uncharacteristically, had an excited gleam in his eyes.

“Good to see you,” Orsino said. “I have some excellent news—come to my office, we have a visiting scientist we'd love for you to meet.”

Anders let himself be swept along. “This is the first time someone new has come onto your team,” he said, probing. Usually these visits followed a deadening routine.

“He's not on the team, per se,” Orsino said. “But he's been writing to me with some interesting theories, and he finally got the time off from the Magisterium to travel here.”

“He's from Tevinter?” Anders asked. The idea made him slow a bit—it bothered him. What had someone been saying about Tevinter recently?

“Yes, but he's great,” Orsino confided. “A real visionary.”

Anders smiled, hiding his momentary qualm.

“I can't make any promises, but I'm sure Professor Danarius can find a new angle for us,” Orsino said, opening the door to his office. “After you.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' sling is off, but his past is rapidly approaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS HAVE HAD AN UPDATE - I've added violence, and a certain nasty baby-Magister to the character list.

“Must be pleased to be rid of it though,” Carver grunts, shifting his stance as he takes a one-two punch combination to the focus mitts over his hands.  Fenris resumes his guard, holding his fists up near his face, elbows tucked into his sides.  It takes a few moments for Carver’s words to filter through his consciousness , and then he nods, not taking his eyes off the mitts in front of him.  Then he shakes his head and drops his guard, relaxing out of his stance.

 

“Yes,” he sighs.  “It is a relief to be rid of the sling.  Now are we talking, or working out?  Because if you would rather yammer at me, I would at least like to imbibe some form of alcoholic beverage while you do it.”

Carver laughs and drops his hands.  “Yeah,” he grins, “C’mon then.”

 

They walk down the street under a louring sky.  These last days have threatened late summer storms - a threat which never seems to arrive.  The heat is oppressive, making the road ahead of them shimmer in a haze.  Fenris can smell the harsh stench of the bitumen seal in his nose, all through his head.  The smell always reminds him of Tevinter summers - the processions of troops through the streets in the seemingly endless war for Sehron, their boots striking the black tar seal, light armoured vehicles rumbling behind them toward the coast, banners waving in the wind.  The way that the epaulettes on the soldiers would glint in the sunlight, the serious young faces beneath the armoured headgear.  Fenris snorts out of his nose, trying to clear the smell, but it is everywhere.  Carver glances at him quickly and says quietly, “Nearly there.”

 

Fenris murmurs noncommittally and shoves his hands into his pockets.  It seems he cannot stop thinking of Tevinter lately.  They pass the bookshop and Fenris looks at the cracked sidewalk to stop himself glancing over the road at the florists.  Nobody will be there now - it is past five pm, and he knows that that is always when Anders closes shop.  Sometimes, he seems to close earlier and a large black car arrives to whisk him away to who knows where - not that Fenris has been watching for it, not at all.  Anyway, it’s probably nothing.  And even if it was any of his business, which it isn’t, then surely the mage can take care of himself.   _ Ridiculous man _ , he thinks, and clenches his jaw.

 

The Hanged Man is crowded, packed with locals.  Varric waves from the bar, mouths the words,  _ I’ll send them over _ , then raises an imaginary glass to his mouth.  Carver laughs and waves back, and Fenris smiles.  They go to their usual booth, and Isabela grins.  “My boys!” she hollers, half standing, leaning her hands on the table in such a way that her arms push her breasts together.  Fenris glances at them, rolls his eyes and tells her, “Put it away.”

“The Maker blessed me, I won’t hide my light under a bushel,” Isabela smirks, then sinks back into her seat, laughing.  Merrill giggles next to her, and then reaches up to embrace Carver.  “Lethallin!” she laughs, “How was the workout?  No new bruises?”

“Hon, it’s no big deal…” Carver mutters as Merrill clucks over him.  He rolls his eyes at Fenris, who chuckles.

 

They make small talk for a while - Merrill’s hands dancing through the air as she describes an alternative agriculture show which she’d been to a few weeks ago, Isabela telling ribald jokes.  Varric brings their drinks, stays for a while to ask after Carver’s mother and share a new joke with Isabela, then he departs again.  Fenris’ eyes rove around the bar, idly people watching, letting the conversation wash over him.  And then, he sees her.

 

For a moment, he thinks he must be imagining things.  But no, it is her, it is her - the same dark hair, the lithe, tigerish grace with which she moves.  Maker, he can almost  _ smell _ her - her magic, all copper and ozone.  His guts clench in terror, and he sees Corff gesture to their table - and then Hadriana turns.

 

They watch each other, across the crowded room and it seems to take an eternity.  Dimly, Fenris can hear someone calling his name, calling him,  _ earth to Fenris! _ but he cannot, will not drag his eyes away.  Slowly, a smile spreads over Hadriana’s face - sly, subtle.  She blinks, inclining her head to him, still smiling, then turns away, moving quickly toward the door of the bar.

 

Before he knows it, Fenris is off his seat, pushing his way through the crowd.  Sheer terror drives him, terror and hate.  “Fenris, what the..?” he hears, but it as if he is underwater, all the sounds are drowned out.  She is leaving, leaving to tell  _ him _ , and he can’t let her, he  _ can’t _ .  “Hey!” someone yells as he pushes past them, but he is oblivious.  “Hadriana!” he yells at her back, but she does not turn.  She opens the door out onto the street and is gone.

 

The night air is warm on his face, and it stinks of the oncoming storm, the bitumen’s harsh, chemical scent heavy in his nose once more.  He barely feels the flare of his markings, the adrenaline  coursing through his blood as he sweeps the seemingly empty street - there, there, to the left, a movement off to the side, and he pelts after her, running as fast as he can.  Everything he feels is swept away under this huge panic which blares through his mind like a siren, his feet striking the pavement.  “Hadriana!” he yells again, his voice cracking on the word, lungs screaming for air.  Rounding the corner, he is faced with a narrow alley, a dumpster on one side, overflowing trash cans on the other - and there, in the middle by the chainlink fence - there she is.  

 

Her smile is gentle, deadly.  “You know,” she tells him lazily, “You always were predictable.  Getting slow in your old age though.”  Her smile falls and she glares at him.  “Slow and dumb.”

Fenris says nothing.  He can feel the bright song of the lyrium under his skin now, feel the dull ache climb steadily to the white-hot agony of the markings full potential.  Slowly, cautiously, he lowers his head, takes one step toward her.  “Hadriana,” he growls, “I am not the only one who behaves predictably.”

“Hmm,” she says blithely and snorts a laugh.  “Maybe.  But Maker, I’m looking forward to bringing you home.  The professor had such high hopes for you, you know.  It’s such a shame that…”

 

And with that, he moves forward, shifting through the air, raising both his fists as he does.  The lyrium burns, but he hardly feels it - he feels swift, strong, and then her face contorts as he drives a fist into her stomach.  Her lightning spell goes wild, ricocheting off the high alley wall, sending sparks into the air.  He hears yelling behind him, but it is so distant, it is all so distant.  Hadriana’s face is a mask, the mouth a line, her eyes almost pure black with the focus, and he feels a shudder of the most repellant sensation almost overcome him.  For a second, he wonders at that, wonders how her magic has not floored him - then he realises, that here in Kirkwall, she cannot openly carry a staff.  Through his pain and revulsion, he grins at her, a rictus, and sees her eyes widen slightly in shock.

And then his strength is back, in his hands, he drives himself forward, grabbing her by her loose hair in one fist, slamming her head back into the chainlink fence behind her.  Once, twice, he hits her in the face, her arms come up and she grabs ineffectually for his wrists, but he is too quick.  Some part of his mind registers that his name is being called, registers other hands, other voices surrounding them, and his rational mind struggles to reassert itself.  But it is not until he pulls back his fist, meaning to strike again that he finally hears the words Hadriana mutters - “St--stop.  You do not want me dead.”

 

“There is only one person that I want dead more,” Fenris snarls, and goes to hit her.  But his fist is grabbed, and he is being pulled off her, he struggles wildly, watching as Hadriana slumps to the pavement among the stinking garbage. “No!” he cries, “No, let me..!”

 

“Fen, Fenris, mate,” Carver says, his voice high with panic.  “Fen, shit dude, what the…”

“Let me go!” Fenris screams suddenly, and in his shock, Carver almost does.  But Fenris’ instinct is gradually dimming, and he blinks, looking for the first time at those who surround them.  Isabela is on his other side, her face grim as she regards the woman on the ground - Aveline stands over Hadriana, as she talks rapidly into a cellphone.  Briefly, she glances at him and mouths the words  _ don’t move _ , and he sees the mantle of her professional rank and responsibilities settle around her shoulders.   The wail of sirens approaches, and to Fenris the noise brings a sense of something great and terrible just over the horizon.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Orsino had always been a voluble man, and as Anders watched him talk, there was no doubt that he was excited—something that Anders hadn't seen before. It must have been due to his guest.

Professor Danarius was a slender man with piercing blue eyes and a natty grey suit, and he had greeted Anders coolly when Orsino had introduced him—but his expression brightened when Orsino introduced him as another mage.

“What specialty?” Danarius asked, extending his hand to shake.

It had been years since someone had asked that, but the answer still automatically came to his lips. “Spirit Healing,” Anders replied.

“That's—a rare skill,” Danarius said, looking taken aback. “I'm surprised you aren't part of Orsino's team, to be frank.”

“I never finished school,” Anders admitted. Though joining a Warden force wasn't the most embarrassing happenstance, it still rankled that he hadn't graduated.

“That is a very great shame,” Danarius said. “In fact, I'm shocked. Orsino told me you owned a store, but honestly I'd suggest seeking Imperium citizenship. They'd sail you on through with those kind of credentials. I've met only one or two Spirit Healers, the specialty is sadly neglected in Tevinter.”

It was on the tip of Anders' tongue to ask about the Professor's specialty, but Orsino jumped in then.

“The Professor is an expert on Fade Studies, and he's had some very interesting things to say regarding Karl.”

“The Fade?” Anders said, frowning. The reason that mages were allowed to live outside of medieval Circles was that the Veil had thickened over the centuries, making it near-impenetrable. One of the reasons for the centuries-old ban on mages in Kirkwall was that it had always been thinnest there.

“Yes,” the Professor said. “Which makes it all the more fascinating that the…tragedy that befell Mr. Thekla happened here. I was in Kirkwall for other business but I couldn't help but give Orsino a call, so that I could come and have a look myself at the situation. Fascinating.”

Orsino smiled at the compliment, then his face fell at the insistent buzzing of his phone.

“Damn,” Orsino said, pulling it from his lab coat pocket and giving it a glance. “Nothing to do with Karl,” he assured Anders, whose face must have betrayed some qualm. “I'll leave you two to talk. Professor.”

With a last nod to Danarius, Orsino stepped quickly from the room.

“Well,” Danarius said in the sudden silence. “I don't expect we will see him back for a number of hours. He did say this might happen. I find myself very desirous of speaking with you further, but would you mind a change of scenery very much? I have a dinner meeting in two hours that I can't be late for, but I'm staying in a hotel downtown and the Magisterium's paid for a car for my use that can take you home after.”

“Of course,” Anders said, a little taken aback. “Would you be willing to wait for me to say hello to Karl?”

“Why...of course. I'll be out with the car.”

The Professor held the door open for Anders, and with a smile and wave, went off in the opposite direction. Anders shook his head. He'd talked with every researcher under the moon, it'd felt like, but it had been at least a year since Orsino had thought one valid enough to introduce. Chiding himself for his faint traitorous hope, he made his way to Karl's room.

Letting himself in with a special keycard, he found himself in a quiet set of rooms, walls painted a soothing green.

In a pool of light surrounding a desk sat Karl.

His long-fingered, well-loved hands were slowly sorting a box of electrical ephemera into plastic compartments, the labels on them recognizably his handwriting—but without the loops and flourishes it once had.

“Hello, love,” Anders said, his voice suddenly hoarse. He walked a bit closer. Karl raised his head, and turned to look at him. “Keeping busy?”

“Yes,” Karl said. “Also, please do not call me that.” His blue eyes sat dead below his scarred forehead. It had never healed well, the sun-shaped brand.

“Sorry, sorry,” Anders said, smiling weakly. “What's all this, now?”

“I am assisting the Maintenance Department in determining which plugs are too old or of the wrong size to be of use to them anymore,” Karl informed him. “I do not like to be idle.”

“You never did,” Anders said. “Do you want any more books? I didn't bring any this time.”

“Only those of a practical nature,” Karl said. “No more fiction, I find it pointless.”

Anders sat on the slight folding chair that was there for his use, and looked at Karl. He had gone grey so early--it had been fun to watch it change over the years from auburn to peppery grey. Karl had taken it calmly, even happily. He’d grown the beard to match his new distinguished hair, and he’d been able to make Anders yelp by--

It felt wrong to think about such things now, with Karl so blank in front of him--through no fault of his own.

“Let me tell you about the flower shop,” Anders said desperately.

Anders maintained their stilted conversation for as long as he could, but it wasn't long before he could not stop the tears squeezing from his eyes.

“I'll see you next week,” he promised, wiping them away with the back of his hand.

“If you like,” said Karl indifferently.

Anders, on leaving, took a moment to collect himself. It didn’t feel right, to only spend a few minutes with him, but he told himself that Karl,  _ his  _ Karl, would understand, and this Karl woudn’t mind.. He made his way to the entrance of the research facility, where to his surprise there was a long black car idling.

The rear door swung open, and Anders, feeling just a slight misgiving, climbed in.

Danarius occupied the drive with idle chat about Kirkwall, politics, and the weather. Anders, rallying himself, did his best to respond in kind, and was gratified when Danarius seemed to listen intently to his answers.

The car pulled up to a lavish downtown hotel, with a doorman who leapt to open the car door and usher them inside. A silent elevator took the both of them, still talking, up into a penthouse suite. It gave Anders another pause—what kind of university professor could afford this kind of luxury?

“Would you care for a drink?” Danarius asked, walking into an attached sitting room, one with a desk, a lounge and a view of the city.

“Just a water for me, thank you.”

Danarius shrugged lightly, pouring himself a finger of something dark, and then finding Anders a glass bottle of water.

“You must wonder why I wanted to talk here,” Danarius said, after Anders settled on the lounge. He himself was leaning on a column next to the large window, and he looked intent, more so than he had the entire evening.

“I...had,” Anders replied. On second thought, it had struck him as a bit odd to leave the research center, especially when Orsino had been so enthused.

“You are Mr. Thekla's legal guardian, are you not?” Danarius asked.

A faint suspicion began to form in Anders' mind. “I am,” he said.

“I wanted to bring you here because I needed to ensure our privacy,” Danarius said earnestly. “You see, the research methods and resources available to you in Kirkwall are not advanced—not nearly as advanced as the ones I see every single day, in Minrathous.”

“Yes?” Anders said.

“Your Karl will not be cured here,” Danarius said. “If you agree to come to Minrathous, and transfer him to our facilities there, he may have a chance.”

Anders sat, bottle halfway to his lips, and he set it down with a clink instead.

“I...don't know what to say,” Anders said.

“Just agree,” Danarius urged. “I however must ask...you two were involved?”  There was a pregnant pause, then Danarius asked, “Romantically?”

“We were going to be married,” Anders agreed.

Danarius responded with a snort, and Anders immediately soured towards him.

“Just...do not mention that in Tevinter,” Danarius said flippantly, as though it was already a certainty that Anders would go.

“I'll be sure not to,” Anders said. If this man really wanted to help him, then he was a Revered Mother. Anders wasn't born yesterday.

Danarius seemed to realize that he had misstepped, and his face settled into a placid smile, inclining his head in what was perhaps a mute apology.  The smile slid off his face when his phone buzzed.

Much like Orsino had, he pulled his phone out in frustration. But whoever was calling the Professor had him frowning.

“Pardon me,” he murmured, and answered the phone with a curt, “Yes?”.

Anders could hear a high female voice on the other end of the line—rising and falling in a terrified cadence.

“You did what?” Danarius bit out.

Anders flinched at the tone in his voice—it didn't bode well for the person talking. He wondered if perhaps he could slip away, but Danarius had strode over to the door, as if he was about to take off running himself.

Danarius, seemingly ignoring him, had put his hand on his face and was massaging his temple, listening to the frantic voice. When the voice paused, Danarius asked,

“And Fenris?”

“What,  _ Fenris?”  _ Anders said, taken aback.

Danarius looked at him then, though the person on the phone resumed talking. And how had Anders missed how cold his eyes were?

Danarius turned his back to him then, putting the phone between his ear and shoulder and Anders suddenly felt very foolish. Had he misheard, somehow? But Danarius had clearly said...the thing to do would be when Danarius hung up, to ask about it. Tell him everything that he knew. Danarius wanted to help him, and he was trustworthy. He could just--

Anders suddenly felt himself retch, his body reacting as his mind quailed in horror.

“Stop it!” he rasped, jerking to his feet.

“Don't tell them a word,” Danarius told the person on the phone. And as he hung up and turned to face Anders, he put his phone away, showing his wrist and the ragged edge of bloodied bandage that had been hidden under his grey suit cuffs.

“How dare you,”Anders spat. “You fucking blood mage.”

“I had hoped you would be weak enough for that to work,” Danarius said. “I'm only a little disappointed I was wrong.”

Anders was fuming, but also deeply afraid. He swayed, before sucking a deep breath in through his nose.

“I don't have time for this,” Danarius said. “Do you know Fenris?”

“I'm not telling you anything,” Anders said defiantly. “Let me through.”

Danarius grimaced, and instead of answering, stepped quickly through the door and swung it shut.

Anders stood incredulously before stepping forward quickly to try the handle.

“Locked?” He murmured to himself, and was thus unprepared when an honest-to-goodness barrier erupted around the door.

Anders jumped back, startled, and swore. He'd seen barriers demonstrated in school, but he'd never made one himself. He didn't have the faintest idea how to dispel one at all. He touched it again and it buzzed against his fingers. There was no getting through it.

“Oh damn, damn,” Anders said, spinning on his heel. Danarius knew Fenris. Danarius was from Tevinter—as was Fenris himself. Could this be some strange plot of the elf’s, to get back at him?

He dismissed the immediate paranoid thought. Fenris  _ hated  _ mages, and Danarius was practically magic itself. It seemed the elf had an enemy, one that was opportunistic enough to think trapping Anders in a room was a good strategy for...what? Finding Fenris?

Anders took out his phone, and a chill ran down his spine. He had been messing with it the whole day, and hadn't charged it. The power read at 3 percent.

First things first. He was going to give the dwarf an earful about this later—why couldn't Varric have given him his number instead?--but beggars couldn't be choosers.

He texted Fenris. 

_ Send me Avelines number ASAP I'm in a hotel downtown and your friend Danarius is here. I'm stuck and I think he's looking for you. _

Sent. The only sop to his pride was that he wasn't begging Fenris to save him--all he was doing was asking Fenris for Aveline's number. The fact that Fenris would now know he was in peril was just a side benefit.

Then he texted Sigrun.

_ Plz plz come to Kirkwall red alert things got weird I'm locked in a hotel room in Kirkwall by evil magister phone about to die go to the hanged man and find varric!! _

No response from Fenris. Anders began to panic. The room he was in was beautiful, had views of the city, and no phone—Anders supposed it would be out in the rest of the suite. He hadn't even looked at the name of the hotel, coming in, and he thought vaguely he had seen the elevator man hit floor seven.

His phone was at two percent. Anders gritted his teeth.

_ Fenris I know you hate me but PLEASE. AVELINES NUMBER. I don't know where I am. _

No answer.

Had he left Cupid in the house?

In agitation, he went over to the neat pad and pen set on a side table and feverishly consulting his cell, wrote down Fenris' and Sigrun's numbers—just in case if he got out and found another phone.

He contemplated the door again. He could blast out the wall, he supposed, but that kind of magic...he hadn't cast like that since school, and there was no way he could pay for a destroyed hotel wall—he would be arrested, honestly. Anders doubted many people would believe his explanation of “this weird college professor locked me in so I set the hotel on fire”.

He took out his phone, and after a moment, sent a text to Fenris.

_ Take care of Cupid for me. I'll pay you back. Anything. _

Maybe he was being paranoid, but he doubted it. If Danarius was a blood mage, they were both in trouble. Anders had a jolt of fear for Karl, but willed it down after a moment. Without his consent Danarius wouldn't be able to take him out of the country.

With that thought, he opened Maps in his phone—he could at least find where he was—and with a cold feeling watched as his phone went dark.   
He set it down on a side table in defeat, and looked out at the glittering Kirkwall skyline.  


	22. Chapter 22

His phone buzzes once, sitting there on the table, but Fenris does not even glance at it.  “Aveline,” he says, watching her as she enters the tiny interview room with her face stony, the grip on the styrofoam cups tight, “Am I under arrest?”

 

She sighs, puts a cup down in front of him.  He does not look at it, only continues to stare at Aveline, who does not meet his eyes.  The remnants of the Horror spell which Hadriana had almost hit him with still curl and tickle - he feels it like some insect crawling over his skin.  The fluorescent lights blaze, turning her red hair brassy looking, making her look much older than she is. “No,” she tells him quietly, “But it’s a near thing, Fenris.  She’s claiming you threatened to kill her, that you attacked her first.”  She looks at him seriously, then asks, “Did you?”

 

Fenris takes a deep breath, and only watches her.  Eventually, she scrunches her mouth to the side, pulls out the chair opposite his and sits.  She takes a sip from her cup, and grimaces, then tells him, “Look.  This is off the record, but we know who she is.  She’s given us that much at least, though after her phone call she hasn’t said a word to anyone.  We’re trying everything we can - legally - to build this case.  So I can’t release you - I won’t release you - until we can either corroborate her story against you, in which case you will be charged, or until we can build something bigger.  She’s cocky, she seems fairly certain that her diplomatic visa and her connections will protect her,” Aveline grins humorlessly, and narrows her eyes, “And that means that she’s going to fall flat on her arse eventually.”

 

Fenris’ phone buzzes again, and he looks at it, surprised.  He never gets more than one or two text messages every few days, almost always from Varric or Carver, both of whom are here somewhere having their own interviews.  The capitalised letters scream at him from the lock screen -  _ PLEASE. AVELINE’S NUMBER _ \- and he looks at the phone more closely.  Aveline makes a noise of annoyance, but Fenris barely hears her.  The number seems vaguely familiar, but the phrase  _ your friend Danarius _ leaps from the screen, and he sits up straighter, clutching his phone.  “Fenris?” Aveline asks, even as Fenris’ eyes scan the rest of the messages, trying to piece together who would send him such an awful joke.   _ I know you hate me _ , claims the message, and Fenris racks his brains.  Who?  Certainly, he dislikes people, but his hatred is reserved for two people - one of whom is in this self-same building.  He shakes his head, staring at his phone, and then his phone buzzes in his hand one last time.

 

_ Take care of Cupid for me.  I’ll pay you back.  Anything. _

 

“Anders,” Fenris breathes and looks at Aveline.  He feels as if his whole body is shaking, and he thrusts the phone at her.  “Anders.  He has Anders.”  For an instant, his mind flares with rage - perhaps this had been a scheme of the mage’s all along, to somehow lure him into trusting Anders so that Danarius could once again ensnare him.  But then he glances at his phone, hears the words in Anders’ own forlorn tones, and he knows, deep within himself that this is no ruse.  He knows it.  “We have to go,” he states, and thrusts his phone once more toward Aveline.

 

“Who has what?” Aveline asks, astonished, even as she takes the phone from him.  Quickly, she reads the messages, and Fenris watches as her face changes.  

“We have to go,” he repeats, “Danrius is a blood mage, there’s no telling what he’s trying to do.  Perhaps Anders let slip that he knows me somehow, I do not know - and it does not matter.”  He rises quickly, too quickly, pushing out his chair so hard that it topples over with a crash.  “Aveline,” he mutters, feeling his heart hammering in his chest, “We have to go  _ now. _ ”

 

“ _ We _ can’t,” Aveline tells him.  “Fenris, I’ll try and contact this number.  We need to establish…”

“Establish  _ what _ ?” Fenris growls, his hands curling into fists on the table, leaning forward, every tendon and sinew in his body tight with the tension, wanting to simply storm out of the room, to run to Anders, because Maker, this was his fault, all his fault.  “Danarius is a blood mage, he could be doing  _ anything _ to Anders right now, and if…”

“Slow down,” Aveline tells him firmly,  “Give me five minutes.  I need to make sure that this  _ is _ Anders, first of all.  And then we need to find out where he is.  The message says he doesn’t know - I can’t go haring off all around Kirkwall on a wild nug chase.  Five minutes, Fenris.”  She scowls down at the phone again, “Can I take this?”

 

Fenris nods curtly, and then, as Aveline rises to leave the room, a memory recurs with such brilliant clarity that he gasps.  “Hotel Dumar,” he blurts, “In Hightown.  That is where he is.  That is where Danarius always stays, stayed, where we always stayed.  The Krayvan suite, level seven.  Always the same.”  His fists clench on the tabletop, and he feels his muscles shiver with the force of his hatred, feels the cycling ache of the brands as the lyrium responds to the sudden rush of adrenaline.  Aveline nods once, takes a deep breath and says, “I’ll confirm it, and do what I can.  Give me five minutes.”

 

It is the longest five minutes of Fenris’ life.  Over and over he berates himself for taking Anders’ number out of his phone in a fit of pique, for thinking that Anders would somehow be in collusion with Danarius, even for an instant - for not working harder to track Danarius’ movements himself, for not taking care of this problem years ago, for daring to hope for a new life, for coming to Kirkwall at all.  If he had not come to Kirkwall, he never would have met Anders, and would therefore never have exposed him to such risk.   _ You should have kept running, you should have tried harder to kill him before you left, _ he tells himself and buries both hands in his hair as he paces from one end of the room to the other.   _ You should never have dared to try and find friends, to get close to anyone.  How dare you _ .  He sighs harshly and rubs both hands over his face, then whirls around as Aveline re-enters the room.

 

“Well?” he asks abruptly, and she waves him to silence.  Some very distant part of his mind notes how worn she looks, how pale, and all over again he feels guilt wash through him like poison.  

“It was Anders.  I got his voicemail,” Aveline confirms and sighs.  “I’ve gotten onto the Central precinct, they’re sending a patrol car over to check it out.”  She shrugs and shakes her head.  “We’re releasing Varric and Carver - Varric didn’t see anything really, and he’s far too prepared to change his story to get you off the hook.  Carver, however, maintains that while things might have gotten worse if…”  Aveline shakes her head and draws herself up, looking at him as she clenches her jaw then sighs.  “I have to hold you here.  It’s…”

“No.   _ No, _ ” Fenris tells her, and in three strides he is across the room, making to push past Aveline and out into the corridor beyond.  But she puts a hand on his shoulder, her fingers digging hard into him, and pushes him gently back.

 

“Fenris,” Aveline says, her tone one of strained patience, “You have to understand.  I won’t risk our case, or Anders, or you - while I appreciate how you must feel, I won’t let you put anyone in danger.  Wait here.  We’ll tell you what we find.”

“No,” Fenris mutters and looks at her for a long moment.  Eventually, Aveline drops her eyes and frowns.  “You cannot  _ appreciate how I feel _ ,” Fenris tells her softly, almost pleadingly.  “I was the one who bought Danarius here - whatever excuse he has used to gain access to Kirkwall, he is here because of me.  I was the one that put Anders in danger.  I have… behaved in a way that I am ashamed of toward Anders.  Please.  Will you help me to make things right?”

 

Aveline takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales through gritted teeth.  For a long time, she says nothing, obviously thinking hard.  Suddenly she looks at him coldly, and Fenris narrows his eyes.  “No.  Fenris, whatever you say, I do get it, at least on some level.  If it was Donnic in this situation, I can’t even…”  She swallows hard, then shakes her head.  “I don’t know what you and Anders are to each other, and I don’t think you could put it into words if I asked.  But I know what the others have said - and I know what I see.”  She struggles for a moment, and Fenris opens his mouth, about to refute her argument, to say anything to try and get her to change her mind.  But just as he goes to speak, Aveline tells him, “Go home.  Trust us to do our jobs.  We will find Anders, I promise you.  But… he requested something of you.  Don’t you remember?”  She holds out his phone to him and says, “Take care of Cupid for him.”

 

“Do not do this, Aveline,” Fenris says desperately, “Do not send me home to wait, please, I…”

“I have to,” Aveline says softly.  “Fenris, if you…”

“Fine,” he interrupts her and takes his phone out of her hand.  “Fine, but the  _ instant _ you know something…”

“You’ll be the first person I call,” she tells him, and he nods.  It feels like a betrayal, that gesture, and he hates himself for not arguing harder, for making her take him with her.  But part of him knows that for every moment he argues, Anders is more at risk.  Clenching his jaw, he tells her, “Good.  You had better go.”

 

-|||-

 

The moonlight shines briefly and then is snuffed out as a cloud passes overhead.  The storm had passed by, all threat and no substance.  Fenris stands at the window of his apartment, staring across the road at the dark windows of the florist shop.  Behind him, curled on his armchair, sleeps Cupid.  The little black cat had come racing over the street to him as soon as he’d stepped out of the back of the police cruiser which had dropped him home, and he had scooped it up, holding it close to his chest as he opened the door to the bookshop.  “He will be fine,” he had tried to reassure the animal, the words only serving to make him feel worse, “Aveline will find him.  She is very good at her job.  I just wish…” but here he had stumbled into silence, and Cupid, as if sensing that something was amiss, had rubbed the top of his head against the bottom of Fenris’ chin and chirruped.

 

He lets the curtain fall back into place, and turns around.  Cupid is safe, the store is locked, and now, he supposes, he should sleep.  He checks his phone for what feels like the millionth time - still nothing - and crosses the room toward a small partitioning screen.  His narrow bed is made neatly, and he puts the phone carefully on the nightstand, before pulling off his shirt.  Fenris feels the tiredness in his bones, the way it pulls at him, and he sighs.  From behind him, Fenris hears a thump, and he discounts it as air in the ancient pipes.  Slowly, he gets into his pajamas, puts on the reading lamp and gets into bed.  

There is a small  _ brrip! _ noise and Cupid jumps up, onto the coverlet.  “No,” Fenris tells it firmly, even as the cat kneads its paws into the faded burgundy cotton.  “No, you cannot sleep here.”  He reaches out, meaning to push the cat off the bed, but ends up stroking the soft fur instead.  “Cupid,” he says softly, “What have I done?”

 

The cat says nothing, only settles down against his leg, blinking at him twice, before closing its eyes.  Fenris sighs, feels the hitch in his breath, and tries to rally - but then the tears are there, he gasps, grinds his teeth together and sobs.  “Cupid,” he says again, and the cat looks at him, but he does not see it through the film of his tears.  One hand over his mouth now, trying to stifle the noise, he gropes with his hand on the nightstand for his phone - locates it by touch and holds it close to himself, even as tears fall onto the blank, black screen.  


	23. Chapter 23

Anders had paced the length of the tiny room a hundred times, and tried the barrier on the door almost as much. It just buzzed and crackled ominously, current licking over its surface, and something about it made Anders want to stay far away from it. Well. He knew what.

Blood magic.

He could taste it on the back of his tongue, and it made him swallow and shudder in revulsion; a taste like copper, a taste like bad meat.  It had taken him far too long to realize what was happening, that his thoughts had not been his own.   _ Can’t do anything about that now, _ he thought to himself, clenching his fists in frustration, thinking again of the blank screen of the phone once it had flickered and died.  What if he couldn’t get out at all?  What if there was something in the barrier that… oh Maker, what would he do when Danarius came back?   _ I’ll… I’ll fight him _ , he thought, and a shivery, nervous laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside.  Fight him, right, that was a fucking joke.  If it had been a long time since he’d talked magical theory, it had been even longer since he’d used his magic to fight.  It’d be suicide.

No.  There had to be another way.  Maybe he could trick Danarius somehow, make him think he’d changed his mind?  Anders crossed the room again, facing the barrier again, thinking hard - and then stopped as he heard a shuffle and click from outside.

Immediately, his pulse began to race, and he strode forward, mouth open, throat full of words.   _ Hey! _ he wanted to call,  _ Hey, I’m trapped in here!  Help!   _ But who knew what was on the other side of that door?  He thought he heard whispers, and a low groan escaped him.   _ Maker, calm down,  _ he thought,  _ it’s probably nothing, you’re probably just imagining it… _  “Mr Anders?” came a voice he didn’t recognise, and he gasped and took another step forward, not even aware of the tears in his eyes as he did.

“Yes!” he yelled, voice high and panicked, “Yes, that’s me. I’m… I’m in here, can you..?”

“Calm down please, sir.  This is Special Officer Underton, with the central precinct of the Kirkwall Guard.  I’m gonna need you to step away from the door.”

“Yes, yes, all right…”

“Now, sir.”

Quickly, Anders stepped back from the door, retracing his steps to stand by the huge window.   _ Maker, what are they going to do? _ he wondered - and then the barrier fluttered. His heart leapt in his chest, his eyes going round as he watched the barrier for any further sign.  From outside the door, a radio crackled, someone swore briefly, then there was silence.  Waiting, feeling on fire with the tension, Anders clutched his hands together in front of his chest.  Time seemed to slow around him.  “Bastard thing,” he heard in Underton’s voice, then there was a sharp clapping noise and the barrier rippled again, more strongly this time.  

More voices from outside, but too low now to hear what they were saying.   _ Oh Maker, please let them get through, _ Anders prayed unconsciously.  Silence again, then Underton’s voice: “On my mark.  One.  Two…”

A huge explosive noise, and Anders felt a wave of icy horror pass through him as the barrier shattered. 

“Ugh,” he said out loud, shuddering. Thankfully, the feeling seemed to pass, but Anders knew he would never forget it -- the sensation of residual blood magic sliding over him. Wherever Danarius had gone, he was going to know that his barrier had fallen, but Anders planned to be long gone before the bastard came to investigate.

Before he could move, the door opened, incongruously easily.  A sharp-faced woman stood there, pointing a gun into the room. Her eyes flicked to him; she nodded, and he nodded in return, words flooding into his mouth so quickly he felt like it was impossible for him to say them all at once.  Several officers ringed Underton, and Anders put his hands up.

“Mr. Anders?” she asked, sweeping her gaze left and right.

“Yes,” Anders said quickly. “No one else is in here.”

“All right,” the woman said. “Come on out then.”

Anders felt a wave of sickening relief relax all of his muscles, and he stepped out of the room. 

Underton lowered her gun, holstering it while the other guards checked the rest of the apartment.  It felt so strange to have other people here - their officiousness weirdly soothing after what seemed like a long time alone.  Underton’s radio crackled, and she reached up, depressing a button and asking, “Captain?” Static flared, and Underton smiled slightly at him before stating, “Found him, just like you said he’d be.”

“Aveline?” Anders said, forgetting his temporary amazement that there was a mage on the force. “Tell her--a visiting professor, last name Danarius, did this to me, and he’s a blood mage.”

The officer dutifully relayed this, and Anders waited with bated breath for a response.

The radio crackled to life again. “We know about him, Anders, and he’s in one of our interrogation rooms right now. Fenris is okay.”

Well, of course Fenris was going to be okay -- though Danarius had seemed to know who he was. And Danarius was extremely frightening, and had no qualms about trying to control Anders’ mind. The taste of blood washed over Anders’ tongue again and he shook his head to dispel his shudder.

“What now?” he asked the officer. 

“You’ll need to make a statement,” the officer said, and shrugged, “You’ll have to come to the station.”

Anders sighed. It was going to be a long night.

 

-|||-

  
  


It was the squeak of rusted metal that woke Fenris.

Despite all of the odds, he had slept through the night, completely exhausted by his fear.  Unaware at first of the noise to which he had awoken, he gasped, his first thought of  _ Anders! _ causing him to reach a hand out desperately to the nightstand for his phone before his eyes even had a chance to focus.  Pale morning light was streaking in through his blinds, and the moment he levered himself up, Cupid also raised his head. He had been curled up between Fenris’ legs in a tight ball.  Then the noise came again, a soft tap, and a creak.  Fenris tensed, listening carefully, and Cupid pricked up his ears, looking at Fenris.  At meeting his eyes, he meowed, and Fenris fought the brief urge to tell the cat to be quiet--as if he would listen.

Quietly, he slid out of bed, phone still clutched in his fist. Cupid meowed again, louder this time, and Fenris gritted his teeth as the cat jumped out of the bed to curl around his ankles. Obviously, he wanted to be fed. Obviously, he was unaware of the danger.

Fenris moved silent as a ghost into the front of his room. The metal squeaking outside had not stopped, but it was a quiet sound--whoever it was being surreptitious. Fenris breathed out through his nose. 

He hadn’t used his abilities in years, not even to retrieve a book from under a shelf. The cold burning of his tattoos was much too painful for such play. It was worse when he had to attack someone--kill someone. He bid a soft goodbye to his quiet life--there was no way he would go docilely with whoever was on his fire escape.

Whoever it was shifted on their feet outside. Fenris tensed.

And behind him, Cupid  _ yowled _ , streaking over to the closed curtains, putting both paws up and digging his claws into the fabric.  He scrabbled at them, his claws catching them a little in the process.

Fenris froze in horror, and whoever was outside lost their composure as well, footfalls coming up to the door.

“Cupid?” A voice called--and the person knocked. “Cupid?” Then after a moment: “Fenris?”

That voice.   _ That voice! _  Fenris strode forward, all composure lost.  He wrenched the curtain aside, heart leaping in his chest as he stared at the figure on the other side of the glass for an instant.  “Anders!” he said as Cupid yowled loudly again, then Fenris reached up to unhook the latch from the top of the fire escape, his fingers clumsy.  “Anders,” he said again, as he bent to undo the lock at the bottom.  He pushed the half-door open, and Cupid slid quickly through. Fenris wanted to reach through himself, to pull Anders to him and never let him go again. To kiss him and apologize a thousand times, to berate him for whatever he was doing which put him in such danger in the first place.  

But instead of coming into the tiny apartment as Fenris had expected him to, Anders waited on the doorstep, holding Cupid, who had practically clambered up his leg.  He looked exhausted, and Fenris cannot help but frown at him in concern.  He opened his mouth, watching Anders’ hands as they stroked the soft black fur, as they held the cat close to his chest, and said the first thing that pops into his head: “Would you like some coffee? I would talk with you.”

Anders looked a little gobsmacked, but he nodded, and stepped through the door.

“I… I mean, I’m sorry if I woke you.  Um.  I can’t stay -- I should probably feed him,” he said in warning, and Fenris frowned. What he had to say would not be short.

“I have something he could eat,” Fenris said.  For a moment, Anders looked indecisive, but as Fenris watched, Cupid reached up, putting a gentle paw against Anders’ chin.  Quietly, the man chuckled, looking down at the cat fondly, then sighed.  “Alright then,” he murmured, “Thinking with your stomach, as usual.”  And not long after that, Anders was sitting on his couch, Cupid noisily eating some canned chicken. Fenris was slowly making a very large pot of coffee, trying to marshal his thoughts. 

Instead, he probably wasted at least twice as much coffee as was needed. Suppressing a sigh, he carried out two mugs.

Anders took his without a murmur -- he had jumped when Fenris had rounded the corner, and was still looking on edge. He must have been almost asleep, but Fenris needed to hear what had happened.

Fenris took a long drink of his coffee, then spoke.

“About last night.  You have probably been told, or guessed that I know Danarius. And I know that he’s been looking for me for a great while.”

“I had gathered that,” Anders said, raising the mug to his lips.

“Then I owe you much, and an explanation is the least of what I can give you.”  Fenris sighed, both hands curled around the hot mug, no longer daring to look at Anders - that careworn face, those tired, but still bright eyes.  “I...was young, probably seventeen,” Fenris started, and glanced up quickly, saw Anders’ eyes widen, and looked back down again. “And my family was very poor. But I saw an advertisement looking for clinical subjects at Minrathous University.  The advertisement specified that the subjects should be young, healthy elves.”

“It was enough money to provide for my family over months,” Fenris continued. “My mother and sister were able to pay for government ID for the first time. I would have gotten it too, but they kept us in a dormitory next to the laboratory. We were kept isolated from each other - all part of the tests, I was told.  There were assurances that it was all perfectly safe, trials of a drug which had passed all its other tests with flying colours.  I now know that that was a lie.”  Fenris swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. “I would see others involved very occasionally, and every time I did there seemed to be fewer of us.  People stopped showing up, after a while -- I thought that maybe they moved on to other things. Now I know they probably died.”

“That can’t be legal,” Anders said.

Fenris shook his head. “I doubt that it was,” he said quietly, “I don’t even know what I agreed to. I believe I simply signed my name where they told me to.  I do not remember it.  Though I know that when I lived in Tevinter, I could barely read.” Education had not been something the Tevinter Imperium cared about for elves, so it was likely he wouldn’t have understood much of what was on the endless contracts he signed. He felt a grim satisfaction at the thought of all the books in his store, just beneath him.

“The treatments were painful,” he said, feeling distant. “The testing was endless. I started to have blank periods, where I would remember nothing. I was prey to strange moodswings - long periods of hopelessness, perhaps caused by the isolation of my surroundings.  My hair eventually turned white.  It was one of the more benign side effects of the… treatment.”

“Because of stress? That’s not how it works, really,” Anders said. Then, “Wait, that’s not dyed? Then how--”

“Because of the lyrium,” Fenris said quietly, not raising his eyes from his coffee cup for a long moment.  For a moment, all was silent in his apartment.  When he looked up again, Anders was looking at him,  appalled shock writ large on his face.

“Lyrium...in your skin?” Anders asked. “Why would they do that?”

“Three years on,” Fenris said. “I was the only one left. And I could do this,” he said. His hand lit in a blazing blue light, and he trailed his fingers through the wood of the table in front of him.

He looked up in time to see Anders’ face - exhausted, confused, aghast.  Silently, he clenched his fist, disbursing the blue light, and picked up his coffee, draining it in a few more swallows.  Looking down at the tabletop, Fenris took a deep breath and continued.  “I was the single result of years of experimentation.  These were live weapon trials.  Danarius was involved, at that time, in military, not medical, research.  He posited that he could create a kind of… soldier, an assassin, one that would feel no fear, know no pain, follow orders as blindly as any machine.  And be able to use a close connection to the Fade, which was supplied through contact with lyrium to phase through solid objects.  And because I had… I had given up my freedom for it, Danarius had a legally binding contract that I had signed…”

“Without any understanding of what was on it!” Anders protested, and Fenris looked at him once more, smiling gently.

“Yes,” he said simply.  “But now that you have encountered the man, you know that he has no scruples.”  He swallowed again.  “I assumed he would come for me one day.  But I never meant to drag anyone else into my problems.  Especially not…”  Fenris ground his teeth together, held his breath for a second.  And then it all burst from him: “Not someone I care about as deeply as you.  I apologize, Anders. for the way I have acted. For the things that I have said to you.  And all I can tell you is that I never meant to bring this to your doorstep.”

Anders said nothing, and Fenris couldn’t read his expression. Then Anders reached up to cover his face, and Fenris’ hands gripped his coffee cup tighter.

“I didn’t think,” Anders murmured after a moment. “I didn’t ask.”

“You had no reason to.  And… I do not volunteer information on my life willingly.  I was wrong not to trust you,’ Fenris said.

“Don’t say that,” Anders snapped, removing his hands. His eyes were red; but whether with tiredness or the nature of the history he had been told, Fenris could not be sure. “With the things you’ve told me that that… that _ fucking awful _ man did to you, was it any wonder you didn’t trust me with it?”  He ran both hands through his hair and shook his head quickly.  “I was a complete asshole and you’re sitting there saying that. It’s not true.  You weren’t  _ wrong _ not to trust me right off the bat.  You… we hardly know each other.  Not really.”

Fenris pressed his lips together, and Anders continued on, desperately. “I trusted him, for a few moments. I might have decided to let him take Karl with him -- I would have gone too.”

“Whoever Karl is… if you were considering going to Tevinter with him, he must have been… he must be important to you,” Fenris said carefully.  It was a story for another time, perhaps.  But if this Karl was involved with Anders, did he really want to know? He took a deep breath and continued,  “Danarius would almost certainly have found whatever care you have for him… inconvenient.”

“Then you saved my life.  And perhaps you saved Karl’s as well,” Anders said.  He blinked the tears from his eyes and rubbed his face tiredly, then looked at Fenris.  “Karl is… was… my fiancé.  He was attacked.  Years ago.  He was very political, very prominent in the rights movement.  Mage rights.”  Anders grimaces, and looked at Fenris, “The people who attacked him made him Tranquil.  Took away his magic, and everything he was.  I… visit him.  On Tuesdays.  There’s no way to reverse it, and he barely remembers who I am and he’s not even anything like himself. They’re not even researching it anymore, not really. I just… I wanted something to help him, he was...it…” Anders took a deep breath and closed his eyes tight, and without considering it, Fenris reached across the table to quickly squeeze Anders’ hand.  Almost immediately, he pulled away again, but not before Anders looked up, shock evident in his eyes.  The silence surrounded them briefly, then, before Fenris could open his mouth to apologize, Anders cleared his throat and continued.

“He got a phone call and mentioned your name. There’s not too many Fenrises about. I asked, and…” he shuddered, clutching the back of his head briefly.

Fenris was able to guess what had happened easily enough, and he nodded, “It will wear off in time,” he said softly. “The sick feeling, I mean.”  He scowled in concern, then asked, “Did you not try to dispel the barrier yourself?  Or fight him?”

“No,” Anders said.  “I mean, I tried to stop it closing, but it’s been a long time since I’ve encountered anything that powerful, and I’ve  _ never  _ used my magic to fight.  Well…” He grinned lopsidedly and shrugged, “Once or twice maybe.  A fireball or two.  But…”  His smile faded, and was replaced by a look of deep concern, “No. I didn’t fight him.  Fenris.  I came here for something else.  Cupid of course, but…”

Fenris swallows.   _ I never want to see you again _ , he prepared himself,  _ I’m moving away to be closer to Karl _ .  Slowly, he nodded, then looked up at Anders, who stared at him with wide eyes, his expression strange.  The silence grew, and finally Fenris could stand it no longer.  He looked down at the table and murmured, “Say it, then.  Tell me what it is.”

“I’m sorry,” Anders says softly.  “For all the hurtful things I said to you.  I know it isn’t enough, and I know it isn’t the right time.  But if all this has taught me anything, it’s that I need to let go.  And… and…” he sighs harshly and Fenris looks up, sees Anders’ frown has deepened, that his cheeks are pink, “I’d like to start over.  With you.  Not so that we forget anything that’s happened, because Maker knows  _ that’s _ not going to happen anytime soon, but I just, I really want to start over.  I think about you a lot, and I… I mean, I care about you, and Cupid likes you, he really does.  The things I said about you were awful, but… I mean, you might not want to. Mages have done some seriously disgusting things to you. I’m a mage and there’s no getting past that but…”

“Anders,” Fenris said softly, and Anders stopped mid-flow.  His facial expression is fraught, and Fenris tried to collect his thoughts, even a little, before he responded.

“When I got your texts I was terrified,” he said. “At first, for myself. Did Aveline tell you about Hadriana?”

“No,” Anders said, frowning, but Fenris shook his head and continued

“I was afraid that Danarius was here to take me back. If not for Aveline I have no doubt he would have succeeded.” He paused. “But once I was able to think through my fear, I was afraid for you and for what he might do to you.”

He reached over and carefully took Anders’ hand, which was ice cold. The stress and exhaustion was taking its toll on Anders.

Anders’ breath caught audibly as Fenris raised his hand to his lips. But before he could kiss Anders’ cold fingers -- in relief, in hope, as a promise -- Anders pulled his hand away.

Fenris pressed his lips together tightly and shut his eyes, just for a brief moment to collect himself -- of course Anders would not accept this. Perhaps he felt bad for their hot words to each other but that spark between them had extinguished, for Anders--

He jumped when he felt hands set gently on his thighs, just above his knees, and a soft mouth touched his in question.

Fenris gasped, and kept his eyes closed as Anders explored his mouth then, very gently, began to kiss in return. He raised his hands to Anders’ shoulders, leaning back on the couch so that Anders went with him, opening his legs. Anders’ torso pressed against his, and his mouth left off kissing him to move down his neck, making Fenris jump again in surprise, and then pleasure. No one had done that for him before.

He groaned aloud when a strong thumb pressed against the base of his ear and smoothed up around the shell. It felt painfully good, after the stress of the last day. He pulled at Anders then, twisting on the couch until Anders got up and knelt between his spread legs, holding himself up over Fenris. 

His mouth felt dry and the tips of his fingers tingled as Anders tugged up his shirt to lay a tender kiss on his sternum. He heard shifting, then Anders pressed his body to his, and Fenris, confused, felt him set his head beneath his chin.

“I’m sorry,” Anders muttered into his rucked-up t-shirt. “I am so exhausted.”

Fenris laughed shakily and lowered his head, kissing Anders’ hair.  He breathed in the scent of it - soap and flowers and sweat and  _ Anders _ \- and then put his hands on Anders’ waist.  “Do not apologise,” he murmured; and before his mind could catch up with his mouth, he had said, “Come to bed.”

Anders took a deep breath, the cool feeling of his hands against Fenris’ ribs gentle, somehow vulnerable.  Then he sighed it all out again, rising with the motion, and Fenris watched him swallow hard.  The look on Anders’ face was tentative, worried, and Fenris reached out, wanting to smooth some of the concern away - gently, he placed his hand under Anders’ jaw, caressing his cheek with his thumb and murmurs, “You do not have to.”

“I want to,” Anders interrupts, and smiles slightly.  “Maker, I want to.  Just… yes.  Yes please.  Take me to bed.”

Fenris smiled and struggled up, waiting for Anders to disentangle himself from his legs and a rogue cushion before moving off the couch himself.  He was still in his pajamas - grimly he considered that his hair must be a mess, and couldn’t resist raising a hand to it briefly before scolding himself for being ridiculous.  

His bedroom was small, and the sun shone through the slats, reminding Fenris that it was close to midmorning. His bed was mussed from where he had left it, but Anders groaned softly and bent to untie his shoes.

“Do you--” Fenris started, but Anders cut him off by falling face-first into the bed.

“Mgh,” Anders said. “This is heaven.”  And Fenris couldn’t help it, he laughed.  

“I suppose you do not mind sleeping in your clothes, then?” he asked, smiling fondly at the way Anders used one foot to push the shoe off the other, without moving the rest of his body.  Anders groaned again, then murmured, “Are you coming?”

Fenris took a deep breath, shrugged and climbed in after him.  He tensed slightly when Anders rolled over and slid his arms around him, but slowly, the warmth of their bodies, the strange naturalness which accompanied this moment soothed him.

“Oh, I take it back, this is better,” Anders murmured, his breath ruffling his hair. Fenris was still trying to figure out how he felt, but Anders gave a deep sigh and his body relaxed.

  
Fenris calmed then as well, and listened to the beat of his heart slow.  Anders fell asleep almost immediately. Fenris had slept, but it wasn’t hard to drift off, listening to the sound of Anders breathing deeply.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat* The rating takes a dramatic upswing with this chapter; please check the tags for anything more specific. Also yay, welcome back from both of us!

Anders groggily opened his eyes. 

 

The light had turned golden in Fenris’ room. He hadn’t had a chance to look around earlier, but he had seen books piled in the corners, a few plants in nursery pots here and there. Nothing on the walls, but it still managed to look lived-in. 

Something shifted behind his head, and he jerked into full awakeness, turning his head swiftly.

“My apologies,” Fenris said, and Anders stared up at him.  “I did not want to wake you.”

 

Fenris’ arm was curled around his head, and Fenris himself was reading, a book propped up on his sternum.  He looked down at Anders, a vaguely alarmed expression on his face, then smiled gently.  “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Anders replied, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, bringing a hand up to his face to stifle a yawn. He wiggled his toes, which felt heavy for some reason. The weight on his feet shifted, and Anders moved up onto his elbows to see Cupid glaring at him. The cat levered himself up to his feet with an indignant stretch, and jumped off the bed, thudding heavily onto the floor.  Fenris chuckled and stroked his hair.

“How dare you want your feet back,” he told Anders drolly, “The  _ nerve _ .”

 

Anders snorted, shifting again in the bed.  It really was too small for two, but there was something… quite pleasant about being here, the quiet of the road outside, the little apartment secure and so warm, so very warm. Cupid was gone, though he could hear his collar clinking in the next room. He was probably exploring Fenris’ countertops.

He smothered another yawn against his palm and shifted again, his back coming up against the cold wall.  “I am sorry,” Fenris repeated, and began to swing his legs out of bed, “You must want to…”

“No,” Anders said, moving quickly to wrap his arm around Fenris’ waist.  

He blinked, then frowned in consternation, removing his arms again in an abrupt motion, “I… unless you want me to go.”

Fenris shook his head quickly and smiled without meeting Anders’ eyes.  The smile had a tense quality to it, something in it which made a knot of worry tighten around Anders’ heart.  He sat up, ignoring the dizzy feeling in his head, he said, “It’s alright.”

Again, that swift shake of the head.  “No,” Fenris murmured, “I do not want you to go.”  Anders watched as Fenris’ throat worked.  The silence grew around them, filling every gap, until finally, Anders could stand it no longer.

 

“Fenris?  What is it?”

 

“This morning,” Fenris began, and then was quiet once more.  Anders watched his face, the roll and glide of emotions upon it like shadows on the surface of the sea.  Clearly, he was trying to gather his thoughts, so Anders nodded, and hoped that he wouldn’t leave him poised on tenterhooks for too long.  Eventually, Fenris took a deep breath.  “This morning… did you mean what you said?  About… starting over?”

Anders nodded, still watching Fenris.   _ Please look at me _ , he thought, catching his bottom lip between his teeth nervously.  Fenris frowned, then as if he had read Anders’ mind, he looked up, his eyes full of… what?  Hope?  Terror?  “I… please, do not misunderstand me,” he murmured, “But I would not change a thing.”

The bottom of his stomach seemed to drop within him, and on reflex, Anders smiled.  It felt sickly on his face. He opened his mouth, ready to say something glib, then closed it abruptly when Fenris lowered his head once more.

 

“Please,” he said, deep and soft and  _ oh _ , it was cruel, his voice so beautiful, and telling Anders once more that  _ no,  _ he didn’t want him.  How many times would he delude himself that what he felt could be returned?

Anders clenched his fists in the sheets, dimly aware that Fenris was still speaking, even as he tried to get himself under control.   _ Don’t cry, you ass _ , he thought furiously, then Fenris’ soft palm pressed against his cheek, Fenris pulled him forward, Fenris’ lips on were on his and Anders pulled back, eyes wide and hissed, “What?”

Fenris stared at him for a moment, then frowned in exasperation.  “Were you not listening to me?” he asks, then his mouth dropped open in shock.  “You were not.   _ Anders _ ,” he raised an eyebrow, then laughed - though it sounded more frustrated than anything.  “Anders, what part of  _ please, do not misunderstand me _ do you not understand?”

 

“What can I say?” Anders snarked back, “I don’t do well on words over two syllables when I’ve been up all night being captured by bloody blood mages.”  He shook his head and looked down, “Look, I’ve obviously missed something.  Try again?”

Fenris gusted a small exhale and smiled sadly.  Slowly, he slid the hand on Anders’ face under his chin, pulling it upward until their eyes met.  His smile changed, became tender, “I was trying to tell you that I did not wish to  _ start again _ .  I feel like… almost as if this strange road we have been on has been good for both of us.  You said it yourself.  Not start over so that we forget what has happened.  I… I feel as if it all has happened for a reason.”  

He snorted, “Or perhaps it was only Cupid pushing us together.  Whatever it was, I would not change a single moment of it. I  _ know  _ that I care for you, very much.  And it is this path we have been that has lead to this lo... part of what I feel.”  He smiled worriedly at Anders, narrowing his eyes a little as if wondering if any of this was getting through.

 

_ Love? _ Anders’ mind whispered giddily,  _ He was going to say love, was he?   _ He could hardly breathe, it is so much, too much, and he panted, with what he knew was a completely daft grin on his face as he put a hand out, touching Fenris’ waist lightly.  “Fenris,” Anders said cautiously, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“At this point, I have no idea what you may think,” Fenris muttered dubiously, then chuckled, his eyes twinkling.  A beat, then he murmured, “But by the look on your face, I believe you may have listened properly this ti…”

The rest of the word was muffled as Anders leaned forward, pressing his lips to Fenris’.  He still grinned, of course, but he tried to get it together enough to kiss Fenris properly.  The elf’s hands were in his hair.  _ Maker _ it felt good, so right. Anders went with it, allowing himself to be shifted down onto the mattress.

Fenris’ hand went under his thigh, pulling it up and around his hips, ah,  _ this _ was glorious, Anders’ heart felt so light as Fenris’ tongue tentatively moved against his, one hand in his hair still, the other sliding under his shirt.

 

Anders felt Fenris’ hand settle over his heart, and he sighed into the kiss. Cautiously, he trailed his hand down Fenris’ side and grasped his waist, pulling him even closer. Fenris broke the kiss to huff softly in Anders’ ear, and Anders could feel the foolish grin return to his face.

“Mind if we--” he said, tugging at the hem of Fenris’ shirt and Fenris obliged, sitting back and taking off his shirt, dropping it over the edge of the bed.

_Maker, I’m going to go back in time and punch my past self in the face,_ Anders thought. The warm afternoon light gilded Fenris’ tattoos into white gold, and his stern face had taken on a tender look as he gazed down at Anders. Anders fought the urge to sigh dreamily, and began struggling with his own shirt. 

Hands helped him pull it off of his head and disentangled the collar from his hair, and the shirt fell into the sheets and was lost there. He pulled Fenris down onto him, and curled his hand into the soft hair at the base of his skull.

“You--” he said into Fenris’ mouth, and groaned when Fenris ground down onto him.

It felt almost like a dream--the warmth of the room, the sleepy heaviness of his limbs, and the intensity with which Fenris kissed him.

 

They broke away roughly and Anders gazed up into Fenris’ eyes.

“Can I…” Fenris said slowly, trailing a long-fingered hand down Anders’ torso and smoothing the golden hair there.

Anders nodded, briefly tongue-tied.

 

Anders had slept in his pants--he’d fallen straight into Fenris’ bed without changing. Fenris’ deft fingers made quick work of the button. Anders hooked his thumbs into the waist of his pants, then looked up at Fenris, still sitting astride him.

“There’s no sexy way of doing this,” Anders said apologetically, and Fenris smiled like a cat who’d got the cream.

“Not really,” he agreed with a wry twist of his lips.  “Though you seem to be managing. 

Anders bit his lip, rolling his eyes in lieu of a response.  Could this be real?  It was almost… too good to be true.  He felt self-doubt make his guts squirm, and he frowned a little, looking up at Fenris.  “Hey,” he began, “Do you..?”

“Yes,” Fenris said softly, sliding quickly to the side and off Anders.  “I will get off.  Yes, I have protection.  Yes, I want to be here, with you.  I have wanted it for a long time.”  

Anders rose up onto his knees, wiggling out of his slacks, but he turned around to look at Fenris.  Quickly, Anders shucked them and flung them aside before crawling closer to peer at Fenris. 

 

There he sat in this too-small-for-two bed, his knees drawn up to his chest. The tension in his body was unmistakeable 

 

Frowning now, Anders opened his mouth to speak when Fenris looked up quickly.  “I want you,” he said, and the sound of those words uttered so quietly, with such purpose, sent shivers up Anders’ spine.  A tiny smile curled his lip, and Fenris relaxed his arms and legs, opening his limbs out, gesturing to Anders.   

He didn’t need any more assurance.  Slowly, Anders went to his hands and knees, crawling closer to Fenris.  When their faces were only a breath apart, Fenris’ hands clasped his waist. The touch, the warm, strong fingers... he sighed.  “Fenris, I…”

“Enough,” Fenris murmured, “Please.”

 

Anders shut his mouth, nodded. Fenris’ grip firmed, and it was easy to get between Fenris’ legs then, to trail his hands down to Fenris’ erection, and to tug at his soft sleep pants until they were at Fenris’ ankles. Fenris didn’t seem to care and pulled Anders over him.

 

The feel of skin on skin had Anders close his eyes in bliss. He felt Fenris’ hands drift down his back and grab his ass, which made him break off the kiss and laugh.

In retaliation, he looked into Fenris’ eyes and let his hand drift over Fenris’ dick. It would probably be good to find some lotion or lube, but for now the skin slid smoothly through his fingers.

Fenris’ head tilted back on the bedspread, and his eyes shut in apparent bliss. Anders dropped his head on Fenris’ shoulder, and couldn’t tell if the thrumming in his ears was from Fenris’ pulse or his own.

 

He hummed as Fenris shuddered through one decadent stroke after another, and soon the temptation was too much.

He slid down onto his belly and took Fenris into his mouth.

It had been a long time, but some things one just couldn’t forget. As he hollowed his cheeks and sucked gently, his hand around the base of Fenris’s cock, he looked up as much as his neck allowed to watch his awed face.

 

 Bright green eyes blinked back at him, and as Anders watched, Fenris’ mouth opened slightly; then he licked his lips, and closed his eyes, a faint frown-line between his brows.  Anders couldn’t help the gentle smile which curled his lips, then he closed his own eyes, and concentrated.  Warm fingers tucked escaped hairs back behind his ears, and Anders shut his eyes, contented. He idly began running his nails down the insides of Fenris’ thighs for that burst of extra sensation, and for his efforts he felt Fenris quake.  “Please,” Fenris murmured, his voice ragged, “Please, Anders, can… can I..?”

Strong fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him up.  Anders opened his eyes, pushing himself up and off Fenris, his hand stilled at the base of his cock, the burgeoning need within him flagging a little at Fenris’ tone.  He moved onto his haunches, crouching between Fenris’ legs.  “Are you alright?” he asked, suddenly concerned he had pushed too far, too fast.

“Yes,” Fenris murmured, “I am fine. I know you want to, I want to as well--I…” he swallowed, and Anders waited. 

 

“Sit astride me,” Fenris said, finally. “Let me touch you.  Let me watch you as you come.  Will you… would you touch me as well?”  Something in his voice sounded so tense, almost ashamed, and Anders leant forward, caressing a hand over his cheek.  Fenris flinched a little and opened his eyes.  

“Of course,” Anders tells him, “I just want to be with you, Fenris.  Maker, you’re so sweet,” he moved toward Fenris slowly, not wishing to alarm him, and smiled when Fenris came closer too, the look in his eyes serious.  Anders swallowed, “You’re so sweet, Fenris.  So brave, and kind and beautiful, and I think I lo…”

Fenris moved up quickly, stopping the word on Anders’ lips by pressing his own against them.  

It was probably for the best, Anders told himself. Maker knew Fenris probably didn’t want to hear it, not just yet. But a part of him wanted to show Fenris how he felt, needed to show him. 

 

Even if it had to be wordless.

 

He straddled Fenris in one smooth movement, and took his lips again, moaning when Fenris opened his mouth to him. Anders loosely draped his arms around Fenris’ shoulders. Fenris, who soon broke away and nuzzled at his neck, seemed entirely amenable to this.  He was quiet; a shuddering intake of breath, a quiet moan, nothing more - but the strength of the want in his fingers, the way he kissed Anders like he was all he’d ever wanted, would ever want, it made Anders more deeply aware of the fact than perhaps any words could.  

“You’re so handsome,” Anders said, delirious from the skin-to-skin contact. Fenris huffed a surprised-sounding laugh before giving him a sharp nip where his neck met his shoulder.

 

Anders leaned back, grinning slightly. He was being absolutely sincere. Fenris was beautiful, despite the extensive tattoos all over his body. Now that he was close enough he could see how the skin around them was warped and puckered. Anders felt a pang of pity, but he couldn’t resist the look that Fenris was giving him beneath his long lashes.

_ Don’t mess this up for yourself,  _ Anders said to himself, and caressed Fenris’ cock. Fenris almost seemed to purr in approval, and Anders’ chest squeezed at the smouldering look he was given.

Then Fenris’ warm hand closed around his own cock, the feeling almost a surprise. Anders’ eyes fluttered shut and he groaned.  He wouldn’t last long now.  He rocked his hips forward, into Fenris’ fist, rose up a little onto his knees to allow Fenris to move beneath him.  The room was impossibly warm, and the light behind his eyes was rose, the pleasure mounting within him somehow linked to the light and the warmth - everything felt impossible, perfect, as if the world had ceased to exist around them.

 

Fenris’ breath hitched first, and Anders opened his eyes. Fenris’ gaze was blissed out, and he noticed Anders’ eyes on him the flush high on his cheeks mounted.  His mouth was open, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and Anders smiled.

“Let it happen,” Anders said, feeling impossibly tender. His thumb smoothed over the shaft, and he could see Fenris’ reaction to the words, how his muscles tensed and his hand slackened.

 

When he came it was with a shudder and a sigh, and Anders thought he could hear his toes curling. Good.  But Fenris didn’t seem like he was about to take a breather. Anders jerked a little when Fenris tightened his grip. Fenris looked up at him with a glint.

“Lie back,” Fenris coaxed, and Anders did, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.  Fenris moved over him, pulling at Anders’ legs with a surprising strength until they were hooked over his shoulders. 

Anders grinned up at him, eyes widening slightly as he watched Fenris drag one hand over his belly, through the come on it - he gasped as Fenris gently encircled his cock again with his slicked hand.  His rhythm upon Anders was steady, perfect; slowly, unable to help it, Anders began rocking his hips in time with it.  

 

He whimpered, closing his eyes, hands going to the backs of his thighs and short nails digging into the flesh.  “Please, Fenris, Fenris, I…”

“Anders,” Fenris growled, and just the sound of his name in his mouth was enough to push Anders closer to the edge.  His mouth opened wordlessly, he squeezed his eyes shut, and Fenris told him, “Anders.  You are so beautiful.”

He came, insensible to anything else.  The rose behind his eyes flashed brilliant white, his mind reeled away to nothingness, just the pleasure, just this moment.  This man.  Fenris.   _ Fenris _ , he mouthed his name, wanting the feel of it in his mouth, and then Fenris’ mouth was on his, their teeth crashing together but Anders didn’t care. 

 

He sighed into Fenris’ mouth, grateful when the kiss became more gentle as the overwhelming sensation of his orgasm subsided.  Fenris’ movements upon him became slower, and finally, almost seemingly reluctant, he pulled away, to sit on his haunches between Anders’ legs.  Anders smiled at him sleepily and held his arms out to Fenris, who chuckled.  

 

“Wait a moment,” he said and moved Anders’ legs gently down from his shoulders.  Anders shifted a little, his whole body feeling heavy, watching as Fenris went to the edge of the bed and got up.  

 

Anders swallowed - his pleasure now felt hollow, deeply awkward as he lays with his torso propped up on his elbows and one knee raised.  Fenris rounded the corner, and Anders heard the sound of a cupboard opening and closing, then running water.  He waited, worry curling around his chest.  Then Fenris returned - over his arm is draped a towel, and he carried a small bowl.  Carefully, he crossed the room, putting the bowl on the nightstand next to the bed, and looked at Anders.  “What?” he asked, sounding slightly incredulous, “You did not think we would sleep in this mess, did you?”

 

“I… I didn’t…” Anders blustered, then laughed.  “I didn’t know what to think.  I thought…”

Fenris smiled wryly and tossed a small washcloth onto Anders’ chest.  “Here.  The water is warm.  It is no substitute for a shower, but…” He shrugged, shook his head minutely and mumbled, “You still look tired.”

 

“I am,” Anders admitted, taking the cloth.  Fenris huffed a short breath in agreement, and silently, they cleaned up.  After Fenris returned from returning the bowl and cloth, Anders looks at him.  They regarded each other for a long moment, then Fenris looked away.  “If… you are tired,” he murmured, clasping his hands in front of himself, “You are welcome… I…”  He stopped, took a deep breath and looked at Anders to say firmly, “I would prefer it if you would sleep here.  With me.”

 

 

Anders sighed happily, unable to keep the smile from his face.  “I would love that,” he told Fenris and held out his arms once more.  Fenris snorted, looked at him shyly for a moment, then moved - in two steps, he was in Anders’ arms once more.  After a brief moment of rearrangement, they were both sufficiently comfortable, and Anders fell asleep once more.


	25. Chapter 25

Fenris awoke to someone coming in through the front door downstairs.

Anders was conked out next to him, face mashed into a pillow like he was trying to merge with it. He’d fallen asleep quickly, the late night and the adrenaline still taking its toll. Fenris swung his feet to the floor and, eschewing stealth entirely, threw his bedroom door open with a bang. If it was Danarius he’d murder the man. He was past caring.

“Oh, come on,” Varric said, standing at the top of the stairs which came from the back of the shop to Fenris’ apartment. He shielded his eyes with one hand. “Spare me the elvhen glory, please.”

“Varric, what are you--did I leave my door unlocked?”

“No,” Varric said, ambling inside. “Aveline gave me your key. We looked after the business while you were laid up, remember? Anyway. Glad to see you’re in one piece.” He smiles sourly at Fenris, then the look curdled to one of concern, “Speaking of Aveline, I just got the most interesting call from her.”

“Elaborate.”

“After you put pants on. I don’t need that much information.” Varric waved a hand at Fenris, who put his hands on his hips. 

“You are the one who took the liberty of entering my place of business without my permission. Be thankful it is only my glory that you are currently trying to avoid.” 

Varric chuckled, but the sound is both short and strained. “Yeah, yeah. It seems like you had an exciting night. You should add a shirt to the ensemble, actually, because it’s about to be an exciting day,”

“Why?” Fenris asked, snagging a pair of pants from his dresser and sliding them on.

“Aveline asked me to check on Blondie. Anders,” Varric explained, following Fenris into the apartment. “Seemed he had a run in with an acquaintance of yours from Tevinter. That Hadriana’s boss.”

“Oh,” Fenris said, on the top button of his pants. 

“Fen, I don’t want to alarm you but… he didn’t make it home,” Varric said. His tone of voice made it clear that he was trying to be gentle, and Fenris probably shouldn’t have found it as funny as he did.

“A pity,” Fenris said, starting to grin. Varric’s mouth opened in shock, and then he glared at him.

“You’re a piece of work,” Varric said, through a grimace. “One squabble and he’s dead to you? I should--”

Fenris held up a hand and motioned Varric to come closer. Varric shut his mouth and followed, looking confused.

Anders had shifted, and now one arm was hanging off the bed. His other hand was tangled up in his hair, and the whole was both ridiculous and endearing.

“No shit,” Varric said loudly. Though that didn’t startle Anders awake, the resounding clap of his hands and hoot of laughter did.

“You fucks,” Anders muttered, and rolled over, drawing his pillow over his head. Fenris chuckled, then turned to Varric, still staring at Anders in Fenris’ bed with an expression of glee. 

“Varric,” Fenris murmured, “As you can see, Anders is safe. He has been with me since he left the custody of the police. We… talked. Last night. And…” He hesitated slightly, then shrugged. Varric looked at him with one eyebrow raised, then grinned and shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t kiss and tell on my account. I’m gonna call Aveline back,” Varric said. “See you, Broody.”

“See you,” Fenris said. Anders seemed to fall back asleep immediately. Varric gave a satisfied half-wave in his direction, and strolled back out the door and down the stairs, all rancor gone.

Fenris went to his window, pulling aside the curtain just enough to look down onto the street below. It was getting late. Fenris felt hungry, and the thought made him wonder what Anders might like to eat.

A sharp noise made him jump, and he turned.

Cupid sat, looking at him with a disconcerting focus. Then, the cat meowed again.

“All of you are so loud,” Anders said, his voice muffled from under the pillow. 

They would order in, Fenris decided. Or better yet - he would cook. Perhaps they could eat in bed, leave the curtains open, watch the dusk fall over the city. Drink wine and talk and… he smiled, glancing at Anders’ prone figure, a delicious flush of want blooming within him. Yes. He would show Anders how much he cared for him until the words were easier between them. Fenris’ smile broadened, and he sighed happily.

Mind made up, he swiped up Cupid. Both Anders and the cat made surprised noises when Fenris tossed the animal atop his lover, and the rapidity that Cupid settled to wash himself made him laugh.

“All right,” Anders said, sitting up, ignoring Cupid’s mewl of disapproval. “We’re being bad guests, Cupid.”

“No,” Fenris said, his sincerity surprising himself. “I would not say that. Only tired ones.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Anders said. When Fenris raised his eyebrows in mute question, Anders added with a lopsided grin, “Maybe some flowers?”

“I like roses,” Fenris said, smiling back.

“I think I can manage that,” Anders said, and allowed Fenris to pull him from the bed.


End file.
